


Missed Connections

by hafital



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-28
Updated: 2009-11-28
Packaged: 2017-10-03 23:09:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 29,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hafital/pseuds/hafital
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It happened in the sunshine of the late afternoon, as he walked down a quiet street on the left bank. She came charging from around a corner following the signal of her presence by only a second or two. He had just enough warning to draw his sword and block her downward strike.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Missed Connections: Part 1

**Missed Connections**  
by hafital

  
**Part 1**   


~~~

MacLeod was on a beach. The sun shone on the back of his neck. In the distance he saw a man standing with his back to him, facing the ocean. He tried waving, calling to the man. A strong hot breeze blew sand. MacLeod had to reach the man. He didn't know why, he just knew that it was important. He started running.

~~~

MacLeod stepped into Le Blues Bar, pausing for a moment at the threshold of music and conversation layered like hazy smoke. The bar was full with the early evening crowd, a band playing a salsa infused jazz. He spotted Joe behind the bar, working on the books and serving drinks. MacLeod glanced at his watch, annoyed that Methos wasn't there.

Joe waved to him. MacLeod slid onto a stool and accepted a stemless glass of Scottish whisky. MacLeod swirled, then savored a mouthful.

"Thanks," he said over the music. "Have you seen Adam?"

"You just missed him," said Joe, smiling, pouring another glass for himself. "He left about ten minutes ago. Something wrong?"

Scowling, MacLeod shook his head. "Yes," he said, irritated. Then, "No. Except he's an annoying bastard."

"Tell me something I don't know. What'd he do now?"

MacLeod, eager to share his injuries, shifted on his stool so he could lean in to talk to Joe. "He owes me one carton of strawberry ice cream, a new rice cooker, and a pair of Testoni shoes."

Joe whistled. "I'm not going to ask."

"Amanda gave me those shoes. Not to mention he mismatched all of my socks. What kind of fiend does that?" MacLeod finished his whisky, nodding for a refill. Joe obliged. MacLeod, too restless to appreciate the flavor, took another hasty swallow.

"Remind me to show you his bar tab sometime," said Joe.

"He's avoiding me. Three days now." MacLeod reached into his pocket and took out his money clip, rifling through bills.

Blue eyes twinkled at him. "He mentioned something about stopping by the barge sometime tonight."

MacLeod paused with a ten euro note between his fingers. "He did?"

Joe nodded, rubbing his face as if trying to remember. "Said he had to go to Carrefour first, I think. And then to the barge to see you."

MacLeod snorted. "You can't buy Testoni shoes at Carrefour," he said, with feeling. Stubbornly, he sat down, determined to take his time and make Methos wait. He glowered as he sipped his whisky, scaring the other customers who gave him a wide berth. He glanced at his watch every few seconds and ignored Joe's bemused smile. Supposing Methos hadn't lied to Joe to keep MacLeod off his scent, which was a big if, Methos would probably get to the barge in about two hours.

He rose from his stool, said, "Yeah, yeah," to Joe's smirk, and promised to stop by the next day.

 

~~~~

Presence rang against the old stone of the Pont de la Tournelle. MacLeod felt the vibration rattling his bones, strong enough to loosen his teeth. The Immortal stepped out from behind the wall of the bridge, standing half in light, half in shadow with fog creeping around her legs. The scrape of her shoes echoed against the curve of the bridge. Her hair tied back, she was dressed all in dark colors with a fashion sense that reminded MacLeod of the underground, of squatters and hackers and urban decay, full of buckles and straps and safety pins. She was tall, her pale skin almost the color of the curling mist--a corpse gray. She was like a statue come to life.

MacLeod stopped a few feet away, his stomach clenching in apprehension. He did not recognize her. Skin prickling, he felt for his sword at his side. He looked up along the quay, then glanced behind him. The quay was deserted, but the back of his neck crawled with awareness. "Can I help you?" he asked, calmly, with all of his charm.

"You're Duncan MacLeod," she said. Her voice matched her body, like the edge of a knife. She circled around him. He turned as she turned.

There seemed little point in denying it. "The one and only." His attempt at levity fell heavy in the thick, damp air. The light of day sank behind the indifferent gray of rainclouds.

"You know Methos." It wasn't a question.

MacLeod felt his heart stop for one terrified second. Every instinct screamed, and tightness spread across his chest. But he kept his face neutral, affecting a mask of ease, mildly curious, a little annoyed. He still tasted Joe's whisky. He wondered if fear showed on his face. So he laughed, and looked confused. "I'm sorry, who?"

Her eyes were hard. "You will bring him to me. I will be waiting at the Chateau de Grosbois, at midnight."

This time he really did laugh. "You've got to be kidding me. Even if I knew this person, what makes you think I would just give him to you? I don't know you. I don't know any Methos, either," he said, nearly through gritted teeth. "I wouldn't do that to an enemy, let alone a friend."

Her smile chilled his blood. The brilliance in her eyes held knowledge, as if lies were nothing but a little bit of fog she could easily see through. "You will bring him to me. If you don't, you and I will fight until either you give in and deliver Methos, or I kill you anyway."

MacLeod backed away, edging toward open air. "Look, I'd like to help, I really would, but I don't know who this Methos person is."

"Midnight, Duncan MacLeod." She pointed her sword at him. "I will be watching. I will know _everything_." She left as she'd come, disappearing behind the stone of the bridge.

Tempted for a moment to pursue, MacLeod put a hand to his forehead. Warily, he walked to the barge.

~~~

Duncan weighed his options, but decided he had no choice and picked up the phone. Before the call could connect, he hung up. She could have the phones tapped. If she figured out Methos's cell number, she would have his location. She would follow MacLeod if he went to the bar. He could do nothing that would connect him with Methos.

This might be some old rival of Methos's, but MacLeod's instinct told him she was a hunter and she wanted to play a game. She might not know what Methos looked like or where he lived. If she did, she wouldn't need MacLeod to draw him out. Somehow she'd found out enough to know the oldest Immortal could be found in Paris, and could be found through MacLeod. MacLeod didn't want to speculate on how she came by this knowledge, not yet. There would come a time, but at this moment he needed to concentrate.

He peered out from a port side porthole and scanned the quay and the street. Although the temperature was mild, in March darkness still fell early and the street lamps were lit, ineffective in the growing fog. He had to do something. Every minute that passed brought Methos closer to the barge.

MacLeod took up his cell phone and hoped to God Methos had his on him. He started a new message.

_a fan of yours says hi  
sorry I didnt pay my phone bill  
the barge is off limits  
have a nice trip_

He paused as he puzzled out what to say next.

_live grow stronger fight another day_

Danger. Going dark. Stay away. Leave town now. Goodbye.

Immediately after sending the message he sent a more direct text to Joe, and then canceled both his wireless and landline service, took the battery out and destroyed his phone, trusting Methos would get the message and do the same before anyone could trace the connection. He knew Methos had several contingency plans in case of emergency. He would be safe; he would get out of Paris and vanish and be far, far away before the break of dawn. That's all that mattered. MacLeod could handle the Immortal.

He watched the quay and the street from a porthole, his sword in his hand, his body rigid with anticipation. Every tall, dark-haired man he saw caused his stomach to flip-flop with adrenaline. But the first hour passed, and then the second, and the evening inched further into night with no Methos appearing with a bag from Carrefour.

He debated whether or not to meet her, but the arrogance of the summons galled him. At midnight he sat on his couch, drinking a cup of coffee, listening to the passing boats on the river and the toll of Notre Dame over the murmur of the city.

He spent a restless night, sleeping with his hand on his sword, jumping at every unknown noise. By mid-morning, his restlessness drove him from the barge to walk the streets of Paris, hoping to draw her out. A shop owner's attention lingered on him for too long. He saw shadows moving behind window curtains, was followed by slowly moving cars. People bumped into him, yelling at him to look where he was going. Every little sound, every shiver of wind across his neck, every shrieking honk or cry from a child made him reach for his sword. The world spun faster and faster, until he stopped suddenly in the middle of the sidewalk and closed his eyes.

It happened in the sunshine of the late afternoon, as he walked down a quiet street on the left bank. She came charging from around a corner following the signal of her presence by only a second or two. He had just enough warning to draw his sword and block her downward strike.

~~~

She was _fast_. A blur of movement.

Sweat stung his eyes. He could feel each blow reverberate across his shoulders, in his elbows and wrists. MacLeod bled from several cuts, strength slowly sapped away. He managed to retaliate in kind, but she was not slowed by her injuries. Blow for blow, they were evenly matched. The fight dragged down the street and tumbled into an abandoned building on the corner. MacLeod stumbled over debris, turning before she swung laterally at his neck, landing on his back. He struck at her knees. She parried, kicked him in the face. He saw white and red, bit his tongue. Blood flooded his mouth. She stepped on his wrist, trapping his sword arm.

He spat and blinked up at her. She leaned in close and dug the flat of her blade into his neck just hard enough for him to feel its bite under his jaw, to feel the pressure against his jugular. Her face was calm, unmoved, carved from stone: her eyes glittered hard like diamonds. With his free hand he was able to grab her hair and yank hard enough to dislodge her foot. He swung his sword and met nothing but air. Spitting more blood, he sprang up to his feet, sword ready, but he found himself alone.

From elsewhere in the building he heard her voice, echoing down hallways and against walls. "Have you reconsidered? Bring me Methos and I'll let you live."

He followed, running out to the street. Empty. He turned in a circle, looking up and down, wiped at his mouth and cursed. Wincing, examining a cut on his arm, he limped away.

~~~

He returned to the barge without incident. Once inside, in the welcoming comforts of his home, he stripped naked and took as long a shower as his water heater could handle. She would come again. She would be relentless. He was uncomfortably aware that she could have taken him. That she let him live.

He bent his head to the stinging spray and prayed Methos was gone and safe. MacLeod might never see his friend again. He thought of Connor, like he had every day since that day in New York, and missed him, a dull ache made sharp. _Help me, Connor._ He missed Methos, too, desperately. MacLeod breathed in water and it hurt his throat. He put a hand against the wall of the shower, rested his forehead against the cool metal.

The day dissolved into night. He wandered around the interior of the barge, caged. He could not sit. He could not stand still. It felt like Ants crawled beneath his skin, marching over exposed nerves. Meditation eluded him as he sat cross-legged on a closed trunk, seeking a calm he knew he could not reach. He was nervous. It made him restless and uncentered.

With the dying sun's rays filtered through the portholes, he lay down with his sword in his hand, exhausted, soul weary. Dreams crowded his sleep. He ran on a beach, in a great hurry to get somewhere--he didn't know where, only that it was important he get there quick, before it was too late--but the sand was loose and fell away below his feet. The faster he ran, the more difficult it became. He was desperate, his heart pounding. A wind blew, picking up the loose sand, stinging his eyes. Faster and faster, the wind whipped sand around in a whirlwind of sensation, making a sound like diamonds scraped across glass.

With a gasp MacLeod woke and raised his sword to block the strike that would have taken his head. He rolled to the other side of the bed. The female Immortal was a black shape of nothing across from him. He could hear her breathing. The barge was dark. Only a little moonlight coming through the portholes provided round splotchy patches on the floor. But he had the advantage here; he knew his barge blindfolded.

"I don't remember inviting you in," he said.

She laughed, a sound like sand over glass.

MacLeod leapt and attacked. Their blades rang brightly in the darkness. All he could see was the glow of the moon on her sword and the glint of her eyes. The bookshelf toppled, the couch slashed and shredded to ribbons. A vase shattered. He slipped on spilt coffee. She disarmed him. He twisted around, grabbed a shard of the vase and sliced her shoulder, knocking her back. MacLeod scrambled for his sword. He blocked, their blades sparked. He pushed her back and they fenced across the length of the barge.

Blood made his grip slippery. She pressed him into a corner, her sword across his neck, the katana scraping along her blade the only thing keeping him alive. "Give me Methos," she said calmly.

He didn't answer, only dropped his weight to the floor. She lost balance long enough for him to push her back, but the escape was only temporary. She slashed and beat him across the barge. She swung wide. He took the opening, thrusting at her stomach. The wound slowed her down for a second. He twisted his sword. She hissed, smiled, blood spilling from her lips, and drove her sword through his heart. He gasped. His wound was instantly fatal; hers was not. As he died, she said into his ear, "The Chateau de Grosbois. Midnight. You have four hours."

His vision darkened. The last thing he saw before he sank to the floor and succumbed to darkness was the Immortal staunching the flow of blood from her stomach with one hand as she put a foot onto his chest and yanked her sword free.

~~~

With a hot spear of pain striking through his heart, he jack-knifed up to sitting, alive, fumbling for his sword. The barge dipped up and down almost peacefully; the bells of Notre Dame tolled. He was alone, lying on the floor of the barge in the middle of the broken, blood-smeared detritus of his life, heart beating wildly. He touched his chest with a shaking hand, closed his eyes, and attempted to get his breathing under control. He lay back down, put his hands over his face, pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes.

Several minutes passed. He let them pass, let them collect into an hour. Lying on his back, he concentrated on the slow, gentle up-down movement of the Seine and the barge. From somewhere, he heard a bottle rattle across the floor, back and forth, back and forth, in a choppy rhythm. Roll across the floor. Clink against metal. Roll back again. The sound served to center him, to bring him down from the heights of panic and fear.

He rose, showered a second time, and dressed in fresh clothing. Carefully, he cleaned and sharpened his katana. Well before midnight, he went up and sat on the deck of the barge until it was time to go.

~~~

The Chateau de Grosbois was located in the town of Boissy-Saint-Léger, about twenty kilometers outside of Paris. It took MacLeod less than half an hour to reach it. Stars spread across the sky, fighting the luminance of Paris. The Chateau stood shining in the moonlight, a spot of bright stone in the shifting shadows of the dark park that surrounded it. MacLeod walked through the damp grass onto the graveled avenue that led to the chateau, sword swinging at his side. He looked around, listening to the wind whistling through the line of trees dancing in the distance.

Across the vast, uncovered sea of grass and the long avenue, he saw her before he felt her, striding silently closer. She stopped a few feet away, her sword casually at her shoulder, the tip gleaming.

"I will spare you, if you bring him to me," she said.

"You know I would die first."

She nodded. "So be it."

"We don't have to do this." He was without hope, but he had to try. "Why?" he asked, a little desperately.

She tipped her head to one side, studying him with a slight narrowing of her eyes, and then laughed. She was not beautiful, but striking. "Why do _you_ kill? Why does anyone? Because I can. Because I want him. That is not the question you want to ask."

He gripped the ivory handle of his sword. The wind was strong enough to flap his long coat against his legs. "Who told you how to find Methos?"

This time her smile was a little twist of her lips, almost lazy. Dull moonlight gleamed off the buckles on her jacket. She turned her head to look east. "I lived for a time in a village by a woods just like this one," she said. "Years ago. So many years. There was a wolf who lived in that forest. A white wolf to scare all the villagers." Her voice cut through the noise of the wind shrieking. "This wolf showed me my immortality. She told me stories. Of a band of men who roamed the land, killing and raping and taking everything for themselves. Of the power they had. And of one called Methos. How she hated Methos."

MacLeod held his breath. He thought he heard a sharp keening.

"And I thought, I would like to find these men. They seemed fitting company."

She was insane. Except her eyes were clear of madness, and her voice rang louder than the clash of metal. MacLeod felt the chill of the night deep in the marrow of his bones. Mist coated the ground, a dirty downy blanket. "Cassandra," he said. "She told you."

She laughed. Her smile widened. "No." The shadows that fell over her face made her teeth look sharp. "I am more the wolf than she. She ran from me. For all her stories and her hatred, she was weak. To answer your question," she said, facing him again, holding her sword out to her side. "It was the last thing _he_ told me before seeking Methos for himself. The other one. The one with a scar down his right eye."

She swung. He sidestepped and met her sword. Metal clashed. They fought under starlight. The gravel sprayed as they fenced. He used every advantage he had: his height, his strength. She met each blow, more than matching him. They came to the gates of the chateau. Without pausing, she sliced through the chain locking the gate and they moved into the courtyard.

MacLeod ducked to the right. The female Immortal's sword came down, missing his head, ringing against the cobblestones. With a kick, MacLeod went flying through the air, landing hard on his back, head banging against the ground. He blocked, rolled to standing, shaking the dizziness away. She sliced at his sword arm, cutting through muscle and sinew to the bone. He cried out as blood gushed from the wound, hot over his skin. His sword clattered as it fell against stone.

She grabbed his hair, pulled his head back, and put her sword to his neck. "Last chance," she said, the words breathless and rough. "Bring Methos to me."

He spoke through gritted teeth. "Certainly." With his good hand he reached back and hooked his arm around her leg. She fell on her ass. He picked up the katana with his good hand, but she was already on her feet. Their swords clashed. She circled his sword and disarmed him, her blade point at his neck. The wind howled and swelled, breaking over the chateau. The gates clanged open and shut.

Immortal presence rang deep and true, shivering like wind down MacLeod's back. They both looked out to the gate. Methos stood in a pool of moonlight, his broadsword dangling from his hand, the dark expanse of night behind him. MacLeod's heart leapt in wild joy, then was seized by such gripping fear he became lightheaded.

The wind died down, its absence leaving a valley of silence. Casually, Methos walked across the courtyard. "Someone say my name?"

Before either MacLeod or the female Immortal could speak, or move, or even think, a gunshot rang through the air.

He flinched, slow to realize Methos had fired, the gun appearing as if by magic.

MacLeod turned his attention to the female Immortal. She didn't look shocked or angry, but only cocked her head to one side, studying Methos, curious. As if he looked different than she had imagined. The dark red stain on her chest spread. She took a couple of steps toward Methos, and then fell to her knees before collapsing to the ground onto her side.


	2. Missed Connections: Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A tug of war passed between them, push me pull me. He wanted to shake Methos; he wanted to hug and squeeze him with all of his strength. His eyes stung. The moment crystallized as he realized just how much, with all the blood and sweat and pain of the last two days, he had wanted to live, how much he wanted Methos to live.

**Part 2**

~~~

MacLeod stared at her body with mixed emotions. He didn't want to kill her, not like this. She deserved better. She was a magnificent fighter. But those were their options: kill her now, try and likely fail to kill her later, or run--run forever.

MacLeod gripped his sword, slightly unfamiliar in his left hand. He looked up as Methos came close. "Methos," he said, his voice ragged, drinking in the sight of him.

"Highlander." The moonlight cast stark shadows under Methos's eyes. "I distinctly remember telling you once, long ago--you cannot fight my battles for me. Stand aside, Duncan. This is my decision."

MacLeod held Methos's eyes, weighing both the truth and lie of that statement. A tug of war passed between them, push me pull me. He wanted to shake Methos; he wanted to hug and squeeze him with all of his strength. His eyes stung. The moment crystallized as he realized just how much, with all the blood and sweat and pain of the last two days, he had wanted to live, how much he wanted Methos to live. _I want him to live_. With a shaky nod, he stepped back.

Methos's expression gentled. He held his hand out. "May I borrow your sword?"

Hesitant, MacLeod handed his katana over.

Methos stood over her body, a sword in each hand, leaving her sword still in her death grip. She gasped and arched her back as she revived, already swinging as she leapt to her feet. Methos blocked her attack and thrust his broadsword through her chest. Impaled, she looked down at the blade. Her breathing was audible, damp and bubbling.

Methos held the katana to her chin, tilted her face up to look at him.

"You should have taken me while I was down," she said, blood painting her lips.

"I wanted you to see my face up close, since you worked so hard for it. I am Methos."

Her smile was almost beatific. She bowed her head for a moment, slowly, sluggish. "Yes. And it worked. You're here."

She raised a hand and crooked her finger at him.

MacLeod could see Methos look at her intently, trying to read her as he leaned in a little closer. She whispered something MacLeod could not hear. A crease appeared between Methos's eyes. He searched her face, startled, and then he glanced around to the windows of the chateau. MacLeod felt a tickling at the back of his neck. The wind whistled, a light playful breeze.

With a yell, the female Immortal yanked herself free of Methos's blade, and swung her sword. MacLeod cried out in warning.

Methos spun smoothly, the katana gleaming in the moonlight. Her head fell to the cobblestones and rolled away.

The breeze grew stronger, blowing into a whirlwind. The first bolt of lightning drove Methos to his knees. He screamed as another bolt struck. The sky darkened, a tempest rising. MacLeod felt the power tug at his center; he shielded his eyes. All the windows of the chateau shattered, raining shards of glass.

Bolts of lightning stabbed the ground. Methos lay pinned, speared with each jagged lightning strike. A loud wailing carried over the wind. Methos curled in on himself, cradling his head in hands and arms. Electricity arced over the metal gate and across the chateau.

The quickening faded. MacLeod knelt beside Methos, trying to take hold of him with his one good arm, the wind blinding his eyes. He touched Methos's face, his hair. Methos was gasping, shaking, but he reached for MacLeod. Fingers like ice gripped him. They floundered, holding each other.

The wailing continued. Through the fog of fatigue and blood loss clouding his mind, MacLeod realized it was an alarm. They had to get out of there. A car spun onto the avenue, tires squealing. The police had arrived. There was nothing for it but to wait for them. MacLeod took Methos's hand in his and squeezed.

The car barreled through the open, swinging gates. MacLeod smiled when he saw Joe open the driver side door. "Joseph, your timing could not be more perfect."

"You like that, huh? Can't leave you two alone for a second," said Joe. "Get in, they're thirty seconds out."

MacLeod gathered Methos as best he could with limbs not working properly and his arm still unhealed. He tossed Methos into the back seat, then went back for the body and head, stuffing them into the boot. Just as they spun on to a dirt road leading from the back of the chateau and into the dark woods, the Paris police came blaring down the avenue.

~~~

Relief from tension and fear coupled with exhaustion caused the light in Methos's flat to zigzag each time MacLeod moved his head or glanced around, giving objects a golden aura. Fully recovered, Methos was yelling at him, really quite angry. But MacLeod felt euphoric after two days of hell and would willingly listen to Methos rant and rave for hours. He sat on the couch, cradling a cup of coffee in his hands, and watched Methos pace back and forth, arms and hands flailing in emphasis. Joe perched on the end of an armchair, smiling a little as he ducked one of Methos's sweeping gestures.

Methos spun and pointed at MacLeod. "Of all the stupid, insane, idiotic things--they should rename you Duncan MacLeod of the Clan Stubborn, Stiff-necked Idiots. You're lucky I didn't leave. And believe me, I was tempted. Wasn't I, Joe? 'Have a nice trip,'" he said in a mocking voice. "I would have, far away from you. Do you have any idea what you've put me through the past two days? What you put Joe through?"

Joe raised his hands, as if to say, "Keep me out of this." MacLeod opened his mouth to speak. Methos ignored them both.

"Is it a thing with MacLeods? Were you all born with a death wish? It would have served you right if she'd killed you."

"I don't have a death wish," he said, gently.

"Actually, I'm starting to see her point. But then I'd probably absorb your bloody overdeveloped sense of honor or whatever it is you call it and go out and get myself killed first thing. Well, count me out. I want nothing to do with it. Or you. Or any of it."

"Methos," said MacLeod, raising his voice. There were questions that needed answers. He wanted to know what the female Immortal had said to scare Methos before he'd taken her head.

Abruptly, Methos stopped. He emitted one short, forceful sigh, and stood with his hands on his hips.

MacLeod noticed the dark, hunted look layered underneath Methos's quarrelsome expression, hidden by the frantic frayed edges of his energy, and the questions he had fizzled for the moment. "I'm sorry," he said, instead.

Methos rolled his eyes, screwed his mouth like he was getting ready to start back up again, but abruptly, he stilled. He stared at MacLeod for one devastating moment, then grabbed a bottle of beer and sat heavily into the other armchair, shoulders bunched around his ears as if attempting to burrow into the cushions. Sullen, he took a drink, thumbing the label. "Whatever you say."

MacLeod decided sulking was better than yelling. He turned to Joe. "Do we know anything about her? I never got her name. She knew Kronos. And Cassandra."

There was a palpable silence, heavy with the weight of unspoken thoughts tossed back and forth among all three men like a hot potato. Joe had confirmed that Cassandra was killed in her home two days ago. No one knew who killed her. MacLeod wasn't surprised, hadn't dared hope she might have escaped, but upon hearing the news, he felt an ache in his chest.

"Anything?" he asked. "She had the kind of power that comes from taking a lot of heads, how is it the Watchers don't know who she is?"

Joe rubbed his face. "Hey, we do our best, all right? If we ever had a Watcher on her, it hasn't been in recent memory. There was a reference to a student of Cassandra's that might be her, if she's as old as you think she is. Nothing in Kronos's chronicle, but there are century-wide gaps in his. We're looking. I've got my best people on it."

Grateful but frustrated, MacLeod scratched his head. "Thanks," he said. Through the thick sense of relief that still wrapped around him like a woolly blanket, he couldn't quite get rid of a mild unease that settled just underneath his heart. "Methos?"

Methos shot him a dark, wrathful look. "Don't ask me. I made it an art form avoiding those two. Clearly, Cassandra's to blame for tipping our mystery friend on how to find me."

MacLeod frowned, watching Methos shred the label on his beer bottle. "I don't know. She denied it when I asked her. Implied it was Kronos, although if he did, why did she wait till now to make her move? What did she say to you?"

Their eyes met and the room fell silent. MacLeod thought he saw something in Methos's expression, a little of that startled look that scared MacLeod more than anything that had happened the past two days. Joe's cell phone chirped and everyone jumped, the moment passing.

With a furrowed brow, Joe thumbed through a message on his phone, clearing it before tucking it away. He grabbed his cane and stood. "Well kids, it's been fun, but I've got a car and a dead body to dump."

"Joseph," said MacLeod, with a tone implying he knew the Watcher was vacating the premises prematurely. The message he'd received must have been important.

"Mac, I promise. As soon as I have anything, you'll be the first to know."

Slightly mollified, MacLeod got up to walk Joe to the door. "Thanks," he said again, holding out his hand and pulling Joe in for a one-armed hug. Joe waved him off, but reached out and squeezed MacLeod's shoulder before heading out the door toward his car.

Returning to the living room, MacLeod watched Methos stare moodily at his beer bottle. MacLeod settled his hands awkwardly at his sides. "Thanks for letting me stay here," he said, hoping to ease their way back to a calmer footing.

For an answer, Methos nodded briefly in acknowledgement but otherwise ignored him.

MacLeod sighed. As tired as he was, all he wanted to do was collapse horizontally onto a reasonably comfortable surface. He wasn't sure what time it was but thought it must be two or three in the morning. He could go to bed; Methos would still be mad at him in the morning. But he didn't want Methos to be mad at him. "I don't regret it," he said. "You can be as angry with me as you want. Faced with the same decision again, I would make the same choice."

Methos lifted his eyes. "Did it occur to you that you were playing right into her hands?"

"What choice did I have?" MacLeod took a step forward. "Any move I made would have led her to you, and I wasn't going to take the risk."

Methos sat up, rigid. "And I suppose I should be thankful," he said bitterly. "Did you even stop to think, for a minute, that I might not want you to sacrifice yourself for me? Please, don't do me any favors."

"I wasn't trying to sacrifice myself," said MacLeod, frustrated. He took another step forward, as if close proximity would make Methos understand. "She came to me. And I wasn't going to play her game, whatever it was. If that meant fighting her, then so be it."

"Oh, and look how well that was going," cried Methos, sitting on the edge of the chair, using his beer bottle for emphasis. "You were as good as dead, MacLeod."

"What do you want from me?" he asked, finally angry. "Should I say I'm sorry? Should I leave? Tell me what you want, and I'll do it, because obviously I can't figure it out. It was an impossible situation and I did the best I could. And I can't regret it. I'm sorry if that makes you angry." MacLeod's throat constricted, and he felt his voice give, the stress of the evening finally taking its toll. "I didn't know what else to do," he said, almost pleading. "All I could think was to warn you, get you out of the city. She would have killed you."

Still clutching the beer bottle, Methos relaxed slightly. More quietly, he said, "You're assuming I would have fought fairly."

"And you're assuming she didn't know every single one of your tricks. She knew your _name_, Methos. And she wasn't hunting an imposter."

Methos fell silent, his darkened eyes growing thoughtful until they dropped to the collection of beer bottles cluttering his coffee table. Tension bled from the room, leaving a silence heavy with relief and regrets. They had survived and the female Immortal was dead. MacLeod took his seat on the couch. His eyes fell on a bulky plastic Carrefour shopping bag next to the coffee table. From the bag, MacLeod took out a boxy new rice cooker. "Aw, you shouldn't have," he said.

"What makes you think that's for you?"

MacLeod smiled. He put the rice cooker down. "You're right about one thing." He turned to face Methos. "She played us both. I just can't figure out what her real goal was. What did she say to you?"

Methos shrugged. "That she was Kronos's girlfriend."

For some reason, that struck MacLeod as hilarious, and he started laughing. Really laughing, with tears stinging his eyes. Methos looked at him with a growing smile and soon they were both gasping for breath.

As their laughter died, they grew solemn. It was like one of those awkward moments in parties when conversation fails and no one knows what to say. MacLeod opened his mouth to ask where the extra linen might be and if Methos minded lending him a towel, but he was suddenly captivated by the look on Methos's face--fear, sadness, loss. "What is it?"

It took a few seconds for Methos to speak. Sitting on the edge of the armchair, head bowed slightly, Methos looked exposed and alone. "You almost died tonight," he said.

The air grew thin and MacLeod had difficulty breathing. "But I didn't," he said.

"Yeah," said Methos, so quietly. "I did leave, Duncan, after I got your message. Got on a train to London. But--" He stopped.

"It's what I wanted. I was so scared, Methos, that you hadn't gotten my message. That she'd find a way to trace it back to you." Speaking became difficult and they both let silence say the rest.

After a moment, Methos leaned forward and set the empty beer bottle on the table, adding it to the collection.

"When I got back," said Methos, "there was no way to approach you without her knowing. Joe pulled all the Watchers from the area, only long distance surveillance allowed. She was very good. There was never a good sniper shot; she seemed to melt in and out of the shadows. Not that Joe would have let me. When you left the barge, both times, she followed you just out of sensing range, and so I couldn't be anywhere near, couldn't risk it." He paused. "Tonight, after you left, we went to the barge first."

Understanding, MacLeod felt a constriction in his chest. He knew what it must have looked like: the place destroyed, every surface covered in blood. "I'm sorry."

Methos blinked and smiled a little. "Not your fault." He chuckled, nervously--a short, rather truncated and bitter sort of laugh. "This feels uncomfortably like confession."

MacLeod huffed a laugh. "Whatever sins you have, I share them," he said. "Methos," he paused, trying to find the right words. "This is who I am." He held out both of his hands, palms up and open. "And it's unlikely to change."

Methos gave a lopsided grin. "I figured that out. Thanks." They shared a smile and MacLeod finally felt that everything was back to what it should be. The past two days were history and he and Methos were still alive. MacLeod felt the full weight of fear lift and felt dizzy from relief. "And, I guess," continued Methos, causing MacLeod to look at him again, noticing his heightened color, the careful way Methos kept rearranging the empty bottles on the table with restless hands, "if this is a night for confessions...I know a little bit about living with regret, MacLeod. It sometimes seems it is all I have to show for five thousand years. And I realized, sitting on that train to London, cursing you with every breath several times over, that this was one regret I couldn't live with."

"Methos."

"Let me say it."

MacLeod held his breath.

"You're frustrating, stubborn, and occasionally insufferable. And I'd just as soon kill you myself if you ever put me through something like this again. But I want you to know, before it's too late, that I do love you."

The lights seemed to pulse. MacLeod felt wonder and shock all over his body. He clenched his hands, wanting to reach out to Methos. Instead, he gathered his disarrayed thoughts. "Methos, I--"

"In every sense of the word. I always have. Probably always will."

MacLeod sat back. He knew Methos liked him well enough, but their relationship had always been strained, never easy. "You never said. I never knew."

"It wasn't important."

"Not important? How can you say that?"

"No, not really. Think back to everything that's happened since you and I first met--Kalas, the Watchers, Kronos, _Alexa_. What purpose would it have served? If I had told you, it would have only complicated matters, possibly harmed our friendship. And at the time, our friendship was more important than anything. Still is."

Feeling like he was missing something, MacLeod wrinkled his brow. He remembered Methos was a master at misdirection.

"And besides," said Methos. "I didn't think you'd go for it. I'm not your style. And you would think less of me."

MacLeod felt a flash of irritation. "Nice to know you think so highly of me. Do you always insult those you confess to love? Fall in love with bigoted assholes, do you? Wait, don't answer that."

Methos blinked and flushed. "Sorry," he said. "Defense mechanism."

His irritation vanished. Instead, MacLeod was overwhelmed with affection for Methos so huge it filled the entire room. He smiled. "Now that, I believe."

MacLeod watched Methos twitch and fidget in his chair, still oddly fascinated by the beer bottles. MacLeod was struck by a memory of Methos in the loft kitchen in Seacouver, uncertain, in love and vulnerable, but with a kind of braveness about him. He realized Methos's confession didn't change anything. Methos was right--their friendship was always more important. It had brought them to this moment, and they could never have got there without all the pain and heartache and loss, all of the laughter and quiet moments. The realization was like a hot explosion in his chest and all he could do was stare at Methos as if he were a stranger.

Methos fidgeted himself right out of the armchair. "Listen, Mac. Take the bed. I'm too tired to sleep. I'll just pop out for a ten-minute walk and be right back." He was already up and nearly to the door.

"Oh, no you don't," said MacLeod, leaping between Methos and the door.

"Out of my way." Methos dodged to the left.

MacLeod blocked him. "You do not get to run away from this."

"Who said anything about running? I said a walk."

"Hah hah. No walking away, either."

"This is my flat. I can leave it if I want." He feinted to the right, then started for the left.

"Coward." MacLeod didn't fall for the trick, blocking with ease. He was careful not to touch. This was Methos's deal; he had to make the first move.

"Every time. I said, out of my way."

MacLeod searched Methos's pinched, white face, eyes shining with resistance, and knew he should step aside and let him pass. He didn't move. "No," he said, quietly.

Methos's eyes widened slightly. He took several deep breaths and seemed about to push MacLeod, but instead he closed his eyes and stood under the bare light of the hallway. Methos put a hand against MacLeod's chest, palm flat over his heart.

MacLeod covered Methos's hand with his. He took Methos's other hand and held it as if he were going to lead in a dance and closed his eyes. They stood apart, but he listened to Methos's breathing, noticing the way Methos smelled and his body heat radiating gently.

They leaned in close. Methos held MacLeod by the waist. MacLeod turned his face blindly and their lips touched. He opened his mouth and felt a jolt of desire so strong he gripped Methos for balance. Opening his eyes, he pulled back just enough to see Methos looking at him. MacLeod touched Methos's face with both hands, held him in wonder, looking at him. Methos's hands spread across his back.

MacLeod remembered waking that morning knowing he would likely die, knowing that Methos was out there somewhere far away, alone. He crushed his mouth to Methos's, hungry, rough in his need. He felt Methos's fingers grip his T-shirt. He kissed Methos's lips, his chin, his neck. He felt Methos's breath against his skin, hot and damp.

He held Methos close. They wrapped their arms around each other tight. MacLeod turned his face into Methos's neck and scrunched his eyes shut. He didn't know how long they stood before Methos moved, raised one hand to the back of MacLeod's head, fingers in his hair. With shuddering breaths, they pulled apart, lips seeking lips and skin, fingers tangled together.

They moved through the hallway, through the living room, to the bed. MacLeod pushed Methos down, tugged at his clothing until the sweater came off and the jeans were unsnapped and pushed down. MacLeod stopped when he got to the shoes.

"You wore the Testoni shoes?" He looked with scandalous outrage at Methos. "To a _challenge_?" The shoes--dark leather oxford cut, with clean stitching and a neat tapered toe--were scuffed and marked.

Grinning like an imp in his underpants, Methos flattened himself onto the bed. "What else are shoes good for but to go on feet?"

The shoes went bump-thump onto the floor. MacLeod trapped Methos below him. "They're fifteen hundred dollar shoes, Methos. You don't wear them to a challenge. I never said you could borrow them. They were a gift from Amanda."

Methos huffed, indignant. "If you really believe Amanda paid for those shoes, you're much more gullible than I thought."

MacLeod glared down at him. "That's beside the point. They're mine."

"Oh, you can have them back, then," said Methos, innocently.

MacLeod groaned, and lay down on top of Methos. "You can have them," he muttered into Methos's neck. "You bastard."

Methos was laughing softly, cradling MacLeod's head, trailing a hand down MacLeod's back and under his shirt. MacLeod inhaled.

They lay side by side. MacLeod passed his hand down Methos's arm, over his chest. Methos traced the lines of MacLeod's face. The heat from before built back up again, more slowly but with less desperation. They tossed the rest of their clothing aside. MacLeod cupped Methos's erection in his hand, watched Methos shiver and close his eyes, arch his back and push into MacLeod's hand.

MacLeod swallowed Methos's cries when he came, hard. They looked at each other, their breath mingling, wet and hot. With his fingers slick with lube, MacLeod spread Methos open and then pushed in. He was surrounded by Methos, wanting more, wanting everything. He pushed in, pulled out, crying out with every thrust. Methos came again, and then MacLeod spilled everything he had. It was over far too quickly, and MacLeod lay panting, entangled. He kept his hands on Methos, unwilling to separate. They traded kisses. Methos pulled MacLeod into his arms and they lay side by side. "I love you, too, you fool," said MacLeod, and took Methos's hand in his as he closed his eyes and slept.

~~~

He woke in the swallowing darkness to Methos's hot tongue licking his nipple. They moved in shadows, taking and giving. MacLeod groaned as he thrust into Methos's mouth. He felt a finger penetrate him and it was all he could do not to pound into Methos so hard he would injure him. He came, blindly, and pulled Methos up to take his mouth with his. He was instantly hard again, turned Methos over, cupped his ass and spread him wide before taking his erection and pushing in. Methos cried out and came, spilling onto the bed. MacLeod followed, clutching Methos close.

Before falling asleep, Methos turned to face him. MacLeod felt lips brush his forehead, a hand carding gently through his hair.

~~~

He thrashed awake. The loud banging gave him just enough time to realize Methos was not with him when the doors to the flat crashed open and uniformed policemen stormed in with guns. Instinct drove MacLeod from the bed, automatically reaching for his sword but finding it missing. A plainclothes detective stepped forward with his badge in hand. "Monsieur MacLeod, you are wanted for questioning. For murder."

MacLeod stood, naked but for the sheet he held in front of him, and felt a cold hand close over his heart. Methos was gone.


	3. Missed Connections: Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He sat amongst the crushed and fragrant flowers and laughed. It was a tired, mirthless laugh, but a laugh nevertheless. He laughed at the pathetic irony of his and Methos's lives.

**Part 3**

~~~

Two detectives tag-teamed questioning. Where were you between the hours of midnight and two in the morning? What happened at the Chateau de Grosbois? They circled around him. They showed him grainy photographs, and a shiver went down his back when he realized the photos were taken by a security camera at the chateau. Do you know this woman? Do you know this man? They handed him a photo of Methos, his face looking up, his expression startled, the female Immortal impaled on his sword.

They asked about the swords.

He remained silent. They left him in a cold interrogation room with a row of mesh-covered frosted windows that allowed a gray, indifferent light to fall over the chairs and table, and the required two-way mirror on the opposite wall. His only company was a clock over the door and a silent television with accompanying VCR and DVD player sitting in a corner. It was ten minutes past eleven. At Methos's flat, his clothes had been missing and he'd hastily dressed in a pair of Methos's jeans, a T-shirt, and sweatshirt. He restrained himself from showing his discomfort, knowing he was being watched. Hunger distracted him from the leaden weight of anger squeezing his chest. It hurt, and the hurt made him angry. He welcomed the anger, wanting the heat that anger generated, the outrage, the fire. But his anger was a cold fury. Methos must have known, leaving before the police arrived.

Detective Laurent reentered the interrogation room. He was tall and lanky, well over six feet, and his dark, bushy eyebrows connected in the middle, giving the impression someone had played a trick on him while he slept by drawing a squiggly line across his forehead with a sharpie.

"Monsieur MacLeod," said the detective, almost languid in his greeting. MacLeod noticed a flat plastic jewel case in his hands and a manila envelope. "Comfortable? Can I get you anything?"

MacLeod didn't answer.

The detective pursed his lips, and nodded. "It seems, Monsieur MacLeod, that we have a mystery on our hands. Perhaps you can help shed some light, _n'est pas?_"

MacLeod recognized the change of tone in the detective's voice--less interrogative and more requesting assistance, playing toward his instincts of cooperation. He eyed the detective calmly, having gotten the sense that the police knew less than they implied.

"At precisely 11:53 p.m. last night, I received an anonymous phone call to warn of an imminent murder. The caller wouldn't say where or when, only that a murder of a certainty would occur. The caller was female," he added after a pause, peering at MacLeod through the fringe of his impressive eyebrows.

"At 1:47 this morning," continued the detective, "we received notice of a disturbance at the Chateau de Grosbois. The alarm had gone off, the security system activated. Four police cars were dispatched but by the time they arrived, all they found was some blood on the stone floor and every single window of the Chateau shattered. There was evidence of an electrical disturbance; some of the glass had melted into the stone, and it took us the better part of the morning to extract this from the Chateau's security system." With a few pushes of buttons, Detective Laurent turned on the television set, sliding the DVD he held into the open, waiting slot of the player.

The video was a muddy black and white, with unclear, fuzzy images, but MacLeod could make out the courtyard at the Chateau de Grosbois. The camera was angled to see the entire courtyard, with the gate just visible in the upper left hand corner. The video had no sound, and at first there was also no movement, just another calm night at the chateau. Then he saw the female Immortal slice through the chain at the gate and enter, followed a second later by himself. Dispassionately, he watched the fight spill across the courtyard, taking note of his technique with a critical eye, watching her footing. Their swords were tiny streaks of light against the grainy, muddy background. It didn't seem real, like he was watching a bad episode of some reality television show. His heart sped up when the two figures on the television stilled and turned and looked to the gate. There was Methos, pale face shining in the light.

Outwardly affecting disinterest, he searched that tiny, pale face for a sign, a clue, something. In the video, Methos pulled his gun out and shot the Immortal in the chest.

MacLeod remembered lying in the dark of Methos's flat with the blue of moonlight and the occasional splash of light from the headlights of a passing car as Methos smiled, taking MacLeod's hand in his. MacLeod gripped the edge of his chair. The chill settled more firmly, deep into the muscles of his neck. His back hurt.

Methos impaled the Immortal; she whispered into his ear; he looked up, almost directly into the camera, directly at MacLeod sitting in the cold interrogation room. MacLeod shivered.

Reduced and flattened by the two dimensions of the video camera, the scene looked cartoonish, amateurish in the washed out grays and browns. You couldn't see the horror, couldn't smell the tang of coppery blood, or feel the driving wind.

Methos swung and took the Immortal's head. Lightning struck, and then the video abruptly ended and there was only the snow of static.

Switching off the television, Detective Laurent never took his eyes off MacLeod. "So, what do you have to say?"

Although the video was unclear and murky and lacking in details, it would be a stretch to claim it hadn't been him fighting with a sword. He was recognizable. "The things you can do with special effects and computers these days," he said with a little bit of a smile and a casual shrug.

Detective Laurent smiled and his eyebrows seemed to lower further down his face. "The blood found on the stones of the courtyard is real," he said. "As is the blood found in your barge, Monsieur MacLeod."

MacLeod locked eyes with the detective. Under the heavy eyebrows, the detective's eyes were a matching heavy black.

"My story is not over yet," said the detective. "This morning, at about 7:30, I received a second anonymous phone call." He pulled out a small tape recorder and pressed play.

MacLeod looked down to his cuffed hands as he listened to Methos's voice, tinny and small, emerge from the tape recorder.

_If you want to know about what happened at the Chateau de Grosbois, you should speak to Duncan MacLeod. You'll find him at 26 rue de San Germaine, No. 15. He is there now, but he won't be for long._

The tape recorder clicked off. "As you can see," said the detective, "that brings us to this point, here. Only, so far, you have not proven to offer much enlightenment, Monsieur MacLeod."

MacLeod raised his eyes and looked at the detective. "Did you find the murder weapons?"

Detective Laurent's ink spot eyes flashed. "No," he said. "Nor have we found the body."

"Then, you don't have much of a case, do you?"

"As you say." The detective nodded, seemingly unconcerned, but those black eyes grew bright, becoming more like polished stone. "Who is the man in the video, Monsieur MacLeod?"

"I don't know." MacLeod answered without hesitation.

"You must know. You were there." Detective Laurent waved at the television. "The flat in which you say you are staying is rented by an Adam Pierson." He turned and looked at MacLeod, taking photos from the manila envelope in his hands. "The landlord identified this man, the same man from the video, as Adam Pierson." The photos of Methos were different from the ones they had shown him earlier. "These were taken this morning at De Gaulle Airport," he said. "Do you know the whereabouts of this person, this Adam Pierson?"

Macleod's mind spun, cogs falling into place. The cold anger from earlier finally bloomed into a fire. But he calmly answered. "You tell me. You should know. Check the passenger manifests," he added, helpfully.

"We did," he said. "But I want you to tell me."

They didn't know. MacLeod could tell by the shading of amused frustration coloring the detective's answer. Somehow, Methos had fooled them. "Oh, well, if that's what you're after, I really can't help you. I have no idea."

The detective pursed his lips and quietly sighed. With unhurried motions, he gathered all the photos up, put them back into the envelope, and ejected the DVD from the player. Then, he removed the cuffs from MacLeod's hands. "Your lawyer is waiting for you in the lobby," he said. "You are free to go, Monsieur MacLeod."

MacLeod hid his surprise as the memory of that long ago day in Seacouver slammed into him. Ingrid. Agent Breslaw. Methos sauntering into the Seacouver Police station acting as his attorney. He started to rise, his heart doing jumping jacks with an insane, heady hope. But then, MacLeod realized it was impossible. _Impossible._ The police knew Methos's face. They had his picture. Whoever waited for him could not be Methos. He put a hand down on the table as reality hit him: it would be years before Methos could return to Europe.

The scrape of the chair skidding back hid MacLeod's awkwardness. He headed for the door.

"Oh, one more thing, Monsieur MacLeod," said the detective, too casually. "Does the name 'Methos' mean anything to you?"

Blood drained from MacLeod's face. Detective Laurent's ponderous eyebrows twitched, his expression brightening with intensity, and MacLeod knew he had given himself away. "Sounds Swedish," he said, forcing himself to answer, his voice breaking.

After a moment, Detective Laurent smiled and nodded, and then led the way out of the interrogation room.

A man in a suit waited. MacLeod caught a glimpse of a blue tattoo on the inside of his wrist. With a shaky glance back at the detective, MacLeod moved toward the exit. The man in the suit looked back and forth between them and then hastily followed MacLeod.

MacLeod growled, "You're driving me to Joe's. Now."

With a sideways, anxious look at MacLeod, the man in the suit hurried through the front door. MacLeod followed, pausing to stand in the sun, face upturned, before following the man to his car.

~~~

He spotted the police tail four cars behind and instructed the man to pull over two blocks north of Le Blues Bar. "Wait fifteen minutes, then leave."

MacLeod got out of the car and entered the unmarked building, making his way through to a back exit. He came out in an alley. Watching for the dark sedan that had followed them, he crept along the streets.

He arrived at Le Blues Bar without notice. A "closed" sign swung from a hook on the front door, but as he passed through into the interior he heard the busy chatter of conversations and the low hum of music. A phone was ringing. There were several people huddled around a table with laptops and stacks of folders at their elbows. On stage, Joe's regular drummer was setting up for later. As his eyes adjusted, he saw others lurking in darkened corners.

The people at the table looked at him and watched as he crossed the room. Watchers. Joe came in from the back. MacLeod headed straight for him. "Where is he?"

Joe looked him up and down. He glanced at the group around the table and then nodded toward the bar. "This way. You look like you could use a drink."

MacLeod followed, but he would not be put off. "You know where he's gone. Tell me," he said, jaw tight, his anger still burning through him.

Joe went behind the bar and served two whisky shots. It was close to noon, late enough for a drink, but MacLeod hadn't eaten since sometime the previous day and his stomach felt like an empty, hollow sack. He declined. Joe slammed the shot back.

"What did the police tell you?" asked Joe.

For the first time since entering, MacLeod noticed Joe's pallor and blood-shot eyes. MacLeod put a hand on the bar; the grain of the wood was smoothed by countless hands. He found it comforting. "They had a video of the fight at the chateau," he said, dismissively, as if his stubbornness could dispel the video's existence. "And they spotted him at De Gaulle." He glanced at the Watchers still huddled around the table all pretending they weren't listening. MacLeod dropped his voice. "The police knew his name. His _real_ name."

With barely an acknowledgement for MacLeod's concern about the other Watchers, Joe stuck his jaw out a little. His eyes were tired and sad. "They know," he said, quietly.

"What do you mean? Who knows?"

Joe indicated the Watchers. "They know about Adam. Methos. They know who he is."

MacLeod's fingers tried to dig through the wood. "Joe," he said. His hunger had morphed into a headache, pounding just behind his eyes.

Joe sighed. "What the police didn't tell you, or perhaps they don't know yet, is that he wasn't only spotted at De Gaulle, but also Orly. And at each he was booked as a passenger on at least three different flights going to different destinations. Probably more. Each under a different name, but every single one of them had a middle name of Methos," he added.

The anger MacLeod had cultivated all morning bled freely, spilling from the wounds created by Joe's words. Why would Methos do this? It didn't make sense. But he suspected that it did. It made terrible, horrible sense, and he just needed time to think it over. He needed rest, and a meal, and quiet. He needed Methos.

"It's the same at the train stations. Security cameras have him boarding trains, departing from different stations and going to different destinations all over Europe. Everybody knows," said Joe.

MacLeod caught the tone in Joe's words and pulled himself out of his shock. "What do you mean, everybody knows? What is it? What haven't you told me?"

This time it was Joe's turn to lower his voice with a quick glance at the Watchers to make sure they hadn't moved closer. "Everybody knows who he is. Everybody knows his face and his name. But he's left countless trails, too many to follow, probably none of them real. Mac, that video," he paused, his big strong hands gripping the whisky bottle. "I've gotten reports already from Watchers who say their Immortals are aware of some video being circulated on the Internet. A video that tells them who Methos is."

"But it just happened this morning," cried MacLeod. "Wait, are you telling me it's being sent around specifically to other Immortals?"

Joe's silence said it all. He offered no answers, no solutions. MacLeod's words spoken in jest to the detective came back to him: the things people can do with computers these days. The image of Methos's face as it appeared in the video wouldn't leave him: pale, looking startled, frightened, searching. Again, he wondered what she had whispered into Methos's ear. Did she warn him? Had he known about the recording?

"Misdirection," said MacLeod, unable to keep the weary exhaustion from his voice. "He created a diversion, booking all those flights. Smoke and mirrors. It was the only way he could disappear. He used his real name."

"One more thing," said Joe, reaching below the counter. "This was delivered here." He out a long, white, drawstring velvet bag and placed it on the bar.

Tightlipped, MacLeod picked it up. The bag dropped away, revealing the gleaming blade of the katana. It had been cleaned and sharpened. To MacLeod's exhausted mind, it was almost like an apology from Methos, for taking it, for leaving him.

"Thank you," he said. The chatter from the Watchers grew louder. The drummer started tapping out a rhythm. The noise clashed and collided, grew bigger and bigger. He needed to get out of there. "And thanks for the help with the police."

"Henri's a good man. He'll run interference with them, don't worry."

"They'll probably be tailing me for a while. It's better if they don't start questioning you."

Joe nodded. "All right," he said. MacLeod held out his hand and Joe took it. "Mac." The lines in Joe's face seemed to deepen in the low-watt lighting of the bar. His eyes searched MacLeod's.

MacLeod shook his head. He couldn't speculate, couldn't offer reassurances or even angry recriminations. He couldn't speak at all, his throat closed tight. He squeezed Joe's hand in both of his and then, taking the katana, he left the bar.

~~~

Without calling ahead, answering a need and an instinct that he let guide him, MacLeod drove to the de Valicourts' estate just outside Paris. He didn't want to think anymore. He rang their doorbell and Gina answered. With one look at his face, she let him in. "Duncan." She took his hand. "What is it, what's wrong?"

"Do you mind if I stay here, for a while?" he asked. He couldn't stay in the barge and wouldn't return to Methos's flat.

A little bewildered, she turned to her husband who came up behind her. "Of course. Right, Robert?"

Robert, smiling a little, was not as sensitive as his wife, but even he paused as he took in MacLeod's appearance. "The house is yours, naturally."

A look passed between them. MacLeod knew they wanted to ask what had happened, why he was there, why he couldn't stay at the barge. Gina showed MacLeod to a room, taking a moment to hold his face in her hands. Her concern and gentleness were almost too much and it was all MacLeod could do not to pull away, afraid she would get the wrong impression.

She left him alone. Pausing only to shower and eat enough to take the edge off, he collapsed onto the bed and even though it was only the late afternoon, gratefully sought the release of sleep.

He slept until the next morning, and then slept some more. When he finally woke, he saw that Robert must have gone to the barge, because his clothing had been brought and stored away. Grateful for the clean clothing, he was even more grateful Robert said nothing to him about the state of the barge, although MacLeod sensed an added layer of apprehension from both Robert and Gina.

They left him alone. He went outside onto the extensive grounds and ran through the woods. Up hills, down hills. When he was tired, he walked. For the next couple of days, that was all he did. Slept, ate a little, and then went outside and ran and walked for hours. MacLeod escaped into physical movement: action, sweat, blisters and aching feet.

He called Amanda, to hear her voice and make sure she was all right. She might have been a target, knowing both Duncan and Methos. But no one had challenged her. She was safe and anonymous. "I saw the video," she said to him. "Someone sent it to Nick. We have to do something, Duncan."

MacLeod didn't answer. Trying to hold back the spread of the video was like trying to hold a fistful of sand.

In the evenings, Robert joined him, coaxing MacLeod into a sparring match. MacLeod was comfortable fighting, retreating into that _duende_ of exhaustion where movement was pure instinct. He was unrelenting, until Robert squawked in protest. "Enough," said Robert, panting, defeated, and MacLeod had to pull back, come down from the high of physical exertion.

On the fourth day, he entered one of the salons and Robert and Gina hushed when they saw him, awkwardly shifting from foot to foot. Tense, he quietly asked, "What?"

Gina stepped forward. "Duncan," she said, her lovely face showing worry, confusion. "Is it true?"

MacLeod noticed Robert's laptop open on a table. He walked over and saw an active video file, paused on the image of Methos, looking up, startled. The file was captioned "The REAL Methos taking a head."

"Is Adam really Methos?"

MacLeod looked from Gina to Robert and couldn't answer the question. He just couldn't, but his silence was all they needed. Robert sat down, stunned, with an expression that showed him mentally reviewing every encounter he ever had with Adam Pierson, examining each word they'd spoken, each expression given, no doubt remembering their staged fight. Gina looked more thoughtful, but no less surprised.

"How did you get the file?" asked MacLeod.

It took a moment for Robert to register the question. "Oh, an acquaintance. Another Immortal. I don't think you know him. Someone else had passed it on to him. My God," he said. "How many have seen it? And Duncan, that's you fighting, as well. Who was she?"

MacLeod sat down and told them everything, everything he could put into words. After hearing it all, they remained confused, and good deal more horrified. "What are you going to do now?" asked Robert.

MacLeod closed his eyes. "Find him. Somehow."

~~~

One week into his stay with the de Valicourts, he was challenged outside of the nearby small village while running errands for Gina. The Immortal was a strong-looking man with a face advertising twenty years of age, maybe a little more. He was shorter than MacLeod and had tattoos covering every inch of exposed skin except for his face. His Mohawk was dyed lemon yellow.

"They say you know Methos." The Mohawk pointed his sword at MacLeod. "You know how to find him."

MacLeod breathed in deep. "I won't play this game," he said. "I don't know where he is, and if I did I wouldn't tell you. You want to fight me, fine, let's get on with it. Otherwise, get out of my way."

They stood on the edge of a wood. Wildflowers grew at MacLeod's feet in a spray of festive colors--pinks, whites, reds, purples. Pollen hung in the air. The Mohawk grinned, baring crooked teeth; his neck tattoos appeared to crawl up over his chin and onto his face like tongues of flame. He threw his head back and laughed. "Damn. He's a wily bastard. I've been following his trail all over France. Eh," he scratched his chin and neck, frowning. "They said you didn't know any more. It was a long shot anyway." His eyes glinted as he looked at MacLeod. "But I suppose the head of a MacLeod isn't anything to sneer at."

The Mohawk attacked and MacLeod parried. They moved deeper into the woods, swords clashing in and around the young trees. The air smelled like honey.

MacLeod felt outside of his body, as if he watched from the canopy of leaves above. He could see the pulse of his own power, a tangible electricity. Without too much trouble, he took the Mohawk's head. He sank to his knees and accepted the quickening, the strange moment passing.

He sat amongst the crushed and fragrant flowers and laughed. It was a tired, mirthless laugh, but a laugh nevertheless. He laughed at the pathetic irony of his and Methos's lives. He knew one thing for certain, sitting there with a corpse near at hand and the memory of Methos lying in bed whispering goodbye in the wee hours of the morning: the real reason Methos had fled was to protect him. To protect them both. If MacLeod truly had no idea how to find Methos, the Immortals who would come hunting would have no reason to use MacLeod as leverage.

"Oh, Methos," he said. "You fool."

A week later, he was challenged again. And a third the week following. All looking for Methos, all seemingly hopeful MacLeod would know Methos's whereabouts but not surprised that he didn't. One stayed to fight and lost his head. The other fled.

It would go on like that, MacLeod knew, the steady stream of hunters slowly ebbing away as word circulated that MacLeod did not know how to find the oldest Immortal. Methos was right, but the cost had been dear.

~~~

Wind stirred, a gentle breeze lifting sand into the air. To the right there was ocean, to the left a sand dune that rose above his head, obscuring the view inland. Down the coast, far away, MacLeod saw a man waiting.

The man turned away. MacLeod called to him, but the wind picked up and carried his voice out to sea. He started running after the man. Running, running, but the sand made it difficult. It was too loose and kept shifting. He was tired. If he wasn't fast enough, the man would leave. MacLeod would miss him. He had to hurry.

But the ground was too uneven, and the sand seemed to grasp at his feet. In the distance, the man disappeared.

MacLeod woke in the night, adrenalin flooding his blood--but all was still, and the house slept and there was no sand anywhere.

~~~

MacLeod said goodbye to Robert and Gina, not wanting to bring a rain of power-hungry Immortals into their home. He returned to Paris and stood outside his barge. He hadn't returned since that night.

He entered, and his shoes crunched over broken glass. The blood had long since dried into brown smears. Grabbing a broom, he got to work.

As the weeks had gone by, his police tail grew more sporadic, the investigation becoming just another unsolved mystery. Detective Laurent showed up every three days or so, but there was nothing he could do. With the barge cleaned and cleared of all debris, almost ready to be put into storage, MacLeod slipped down the darkened Paris streets until he arrived at Le Blues Bar. Even traveling that short distance, he felt the brush of Immortal presence. He heard a bell chime and saw a young woman on a bike ride down the street, the bell chiming a second time. He felt the brush of presence again and saw a tall slender man leaning against a building. The man grinned and then disappeared around a corner. MacLeod turned again and saw a goat-faced man sneering, standing still in the midst of criss-crossing pedestrians. MacLeod rushed forward, but the man was gone.

When he arrived at the bar, annoyed and frazzled, it was near closing, almost empty and the band breaking down their equipment.

Joe's smile was warm when he saw him. They gripped each other's hands, took hold of their arms. "You look better," said Joe.

MacLeod grinned. "Thanks, I think. So do you." Joe nodded and waved him over to a barstool.

They drank in comfortable silence. MacLeod almost started telling Joe about the past few weeks, but of course Joe already knew. He wanted to ask if he'd heard from Methos and gripped his smooth glass instead, condensation slippery under his fingers.

Joe hung his cane on his arm and ambled behind the bar to a corner where a stack of books and folders waited. He grabbed the top folder. "Wanted to drive this over to you, but I figured--" He shook his head back and forth. "Well, I just thought the timing wasn't right. Here." He gave the folder to MacLeod.

Inside were photocopies of journal entries, computer printouts of Watcher reports, an index of photos and another index of warehouse inventories. "You found her."

"She went by the name 'Camilla of the Volsci,'" said Joe, leaning against the back bar.

The name rang familiar and it took MacLeod a moment to ferret out the meaning from his memory. "From _The Aeneid_?" he asked, not bothering to hide his disbelief.

Joe shrugged. "Yes. No. Maybe. Who knows? She could have just liked the name. She's Italian and the timing fits. She was difficult to find, let me tell you, buried in references across hundreds of chronicles, including Cassandra's and Kronos's. We never managed to watch her for long. She had a knack for disappearing and rarely interacted with mortals." He nodded at the folder in MacLeod's hands. "A researcher is compiling everything into a proper chronicle."

Cassandra's chronicle recorded the first death of a female pre-Immortal circa 300 B.C., described as a savage out of the untamed wildlands south of Rome. Cassandra had heard of her and sought her out. For a time, they lived together, both hunted and shunned as unnatural and strange. But Camilla, if that was her name, had turned on her teacher and would have taken her head if Cassandra hadn't managed to escape. After that, Cassandra avoided her student.

MacLeod turned page after page of Watchers describing an unnamed female Immortal who would appear only to take their Immortal's head and then disappear again, identified by her speed, her wolfish strength. On rare occasions she was attributed as Camilla. Finally, he turned to the pages from Kronos's chronicle.

He read the excerpts from Kronos's chronicle carefully. The first reference was in the late 1300s, in plague-riddled Europe. A woman, now assumed to be Camilla, had challenged him and won. Before she took his head, Kronos made her an offer of something valuable enough to stay her hand. After that, there was a thin ribbon of Camilla sightings threaded throughout his chronicle--always brief, always violent. But the relationship endured, a twisted version of teacher and student. He read one paragraph over again and couldn't help a little laugh. "She really was Kronos's girlfriend," he said, his amusement tempered by a stab of desperate sadness. But he couldn't make a joke of it without Methos.

"I've read that folder backwards and forwards at least ten times, and I still haven't figured out all of what happened," said Joe. "Considering how rarely we had a Watcher on Kronos, it's fortunate we were able to piece together anything at all."

Since the fight at Chateau de Grosbois, MacLeod had done nothing but examine from all angles everything that had happened after meeting Camilla under the Pont de Tournelle. Every action, word, expression, every touch. In MacLeod's mind, he saw threads attached to all of them: Kronos and Methos, Methos and Cassandra, Cassandra and Camilla, Camilla and Kronos. Round and round, chained together. He was in the circle, too, caught in their net. So tangled, it was impossible to see where one ended and one began. But even his brief interactions with Camilla and Kronos allowed him knowledge, insight and instinct strong enough to untangle the chains and reveal the twisted story.

"What's to figure out?" He rose from his stool. "I'm leaving Paris," he said. "Laurent called today, they're dropping the investigation. They have nothing."

"Should I bother asking where to forward your mail?" Joe stood as well, his voice gruff.

MacLeod smiled, noting the tone of concern. "I'm being challenged about once a week," he said. "And as long as that lasts, I can't search for him. They're all looking for Methos. If I start looking for him, I'll lead them right to his doorstep. I need to disappear for a while." He didn't say that part of him wanted the challenges. Because the more challenges he took, the fewer Immortals searched for Methos.

Joe sighed. "Yeah." He came around from behind the bar and walked MacLeod to the door. "You know, the funny thing is we've reopened the Methos Chronicles," he said. "For real this time. Doing nothing but attempting to verify Methos sightings all day."

"And?"

Joe shook his head. MacLeod tried not to feel disappointed. If the Watchers couldn't find him, chances are no one could, and that was safer for Methos. He pulled Joe into a hug before walking out of Le Blues Bar, uncertain that he would ever return.

~~~

Cassandra, with deliberate intention or not, had taught Camilla to admire the Four Horsemen, in particular Methos. But it was not the veneration one has for a hero or a mentor or even an enemy, but as a conquest. As a goal, a possession. So, once Camilla left her first teacher, she spent a large part of her life hunting in search of her prize, and eventually found Kronos. Between Kronos and Camilla, MacLeod thought the struggle for dominance must have surpassed anything he could ever dream up. The original power couple. Who could say which of the two succeeded in manipulating the other to do what they wanted, although MacLeod's money was on Kronos. MacLeod had no trouble believing Kronos could maneuver Camilla with enough subtlety that she would never know it. Enough to use her desire for Methos as a tool, perhaps an ace in his pocket. Kronos both loved and hated Methos; he would have done anything to exact revenge for Methos's betrayal. If he couldn't have Methos for himself, then Methos must be made to suffer. In the end, it probably didn't matter whether it was Kronos or Camilla who had orchestrated everything. Kronos hadn't survived Bordeaux, and Camilla was free to hunt Methos as she willed. Camilla said the last thing Kronos told her was how to find Methos. Yet she waited. Or maybe she used the time to study Methos, to discover the best way to harm him. The more MacLeod thought about it, the more he realized just how easily he and Methos had played perfectly into her plans.

When all was ready, she set the trap.

But it wasn't enough to catch Methos. She had to destroy him. Perhaps it was loyalty to Kronos. Perhaps she was offended by how small Methos had become--just a guy, not the great and powerful Death on a Horse. Or maybe, it was just how she thought, a convoluted, twisted mind. MacLeod didn't know.

And there were others, waiting in the wings. MacLeod was certain of this. For all that Camilla was a lone wolf, MacLeod had learned the hard way to trust his gut. There were too many variables; she had not acted alone.

Of all the things that had occurred, MacLeod wondered the most about that look of startled fear on Methos's face when Camilla whispered in his ear. What had she said to scare him so badly? That he was being filmed? That the police would retrieve a copy? That Methos's image would be sent far and wide? That Camilla had populated the Internet with instructions on how to find Methos: first, you hunt MacLeod, then you threaten to kill him. That she had friends, all of whom would hunt MacLeod to get to Methos? All of the above. None of the above.

Facing the ultimate destruction of his life as he knew it, and the promise of every Immortal knowing his face and his name and hunting him through MacLeod, Methos had done the only thing he could do. He ran, spreading his trail like white light through a prism. He made sure no one could follow him. Not even MacLeod. Especially not MacLeod, safely deterred the morning after by the kindly assistance of the police.

But before that, Methos had told MacLeod that he loved him.

Sitting on a plane flying to South America, MacLeod cried.


	4. Missed Connections: Part 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> MacLeod lived for Thursdays.

**Part 4**

~~~

MacLeod landed in Santiago, Chile and immediately boarded another plane flying to Caracas, Venezuela. From Caracas he used cash to buy a beat-up 1989 Volkswagen Rabbit and drove to an isolated airstrip three hours south of the city. There, he bribed a pilot to let him hitch a ride on an uncharted plane bound for Quito. Quito to Buenos Aires, Buenos Aires to Lima, Lima to Bogotá.

Gray from exhaustion and dirt, swaying on his feet, in Bogotá he took a taxi to an area called San Cristobal. He paid cash at a tiny hotel off a main road for four weeks, and followed a wrinkled old man up three flights of stairs to his room.

He had very little luggage--just what he could carry, and his sword. The room they gave him was painted a bright eggshell blue, and the windows had pale curtains lying still from the lack of wind, the air thick and pungent with the smell of roasting pork and chili. The bed was unmade, but there were bleached white sheets and a rough, brown woolen blanket left neatly folded on the bureau. He gave the wrinkled old man, whose name was Javier, a few coins and then closed the door to the world. After three days of traveling, bracing for Immortal presence at every corner, looking over his shoulder, he finally relaxed. From the open window came a constant chorus of honking cars and vendors whistling and hawking their wares.

The bed creaked when he sat down on the thin mattress. He put his head in his hands and didn't move until the walls of the room darkened from blue to purple as the day ended.

His days were filled with the strong South American sunshine and the hot, noisy traffic of the city. He spoke to only a few, and except for Javier and his wife at the hotel, never spoke long enough or often enough for anyone to remember his face. Once a week he called Joe, grateful for the lifeline that connected him to what had come before, to check in and exchange information.

At night he dreamt of sand and running as fast as he could until his chest hurt. No matter how hard he ran, MacLeod could never get close to the man on the beach.

Three weeks into his stay in Colombia, he ate dinner at little a restaurant with greasy plastic tablecloths and a broken ceiling fan. An Immortal slunk in and sat across from MacLeod at the bar, his presence appearing to rattle the bottles lining the back of the bar. MacLeod froze, but continued drinking his beer. He knew the man's face, long and big-eared. He'd seen it for only an instant in Paris.

After ten minutes of staring, the Immortal spoke. "I know you, don't I?" he said, in accented English, interest gleaming in his watery eyes. He was unshaven, graying hair pulled back. His teeth were too big for his mouth. MacLeod could see the wiry strength in his whipcord arms. The Immortal snapped his fingers and pointed at MacLeod. "You're the one from the video."

"I don't know what you're talking about," said MacLeod, pushing his dish away and crumpling his napkin.

"Yes, yes, you are," said the Immortal, as if he couldn't believe his crazy luck. "This is great, wonderful. Wait till I tell _mis compadres_. Where's your friend?" He looked around as if expecting Methos to come out of the bathroom.

MacLeod stood. "You have the wrong man," he said, tossed some bills on the counter and didn't say good-bye when he left. Outside, the hazy light of dusk glared. He dashed across the busy street and behind a moving bus.

He set out in the opposite direction from his hotel, kept moving from street to street, getting lost in the small paved cow paths that tangled around the historic centre of the old city. The sky was a clear, dark blue, and without warning hail started falling. Pedestrians in the street ran for cover.

MacLeod ducked behind a crumbling building. Immortal presence competed with the clatter of hailstones, louder and louder. MacLeod turned in a circle and saw three Immortals emerge from behind brick walls and broken doorways.

"My friend," said the goat-faced Immortal, stepping forward. He pointed his sword at MacLeod. "We need to talk."

Hailstones pelted the top of MacLeod's head and shoulders. Little white chunks of ice covered the ground like quartz gravel. "Ah," said MacLeod, revealing his katana. "Manny, Moe, and Jack."

All three Immortals withdrew their swords. The goat-faced Immortal had a Spanish rapier.

"_Diganos adonde puedan encontrar Methos,_" said the Immortal on his left. MacLeod dubbed him Moe. "_O vamos a matarte._"

Hail clattered noisily, scattering across the ground. "And I thought you were all here to start a book club." He lunged toward the goat-faced Immortal.

The ground was slippery, and he used the hail for added speed. Swords clashed. The combatants slid across the ground. MacLeod sidestepped to bring the goat-faced Immortal between him and the other two men, drawing him in close. His opponent was slight but strong, and fought with a vigorous energy. MacLeod was pushed back, almost cornered up against a ragged cinderblock wall. They fought around piles of bricks and debris. He let the Immortal dominate the fight, arching backward away from a hack. Block, spin, a long scrape of blade on blade. Hail fell down the collar of MacLeod's jacket. He slipped closer and locked blades. With a twist, he jammed the Spanish rapier deep into the Immortal's chest. Surprised, the Immortal's eyes widened and then flattened in death. He dropped to the ground.

Without pausing, MacLeod spun around to face the other two Immortals, sliding across. It was like fighting on marbles. The taller one scrambled and fell. With a quick, low slice, MacLeod beheaded him. As the quickening gathered, he turned to the remaining Immortal. They skidded, tripping over the uneven ground. Before the first lightning strike of quickening fire hit him, MacLeod took his head.

Both quickenings drove him down onto all fours, the cold hail burning into his palms. Steam rose as the ice melted. He screamed until his voice gave out, gasping with relief when the quickenings ended. He rolled onto his back. The night sky was black and absent of stars, hail still falling.

Aching all over, MacLeod stood and walked to the goat-faced man. He put his boot to the Immortal's chest and withdrew the sword. The Immortal thrashed as he revived, teeth bared. MacLeod bore his weight down, the tip of the katana drawing blood from the Immortal's neck. The man started coughing and laughing, raising his head high enough to take note of his two men lying beheaded. He lifted his gaze to meet MacLeod's. "They said you were good." His laughter died, sweat-stained teeth bared as he spat blood.

"How many others like you?" MacLeod asked, his voice rough and throat aching. "Who else hunts Methos?" He didn't expect an answer, but he had to ask.

The Immortal's smile widened, and MacLeod saw it in the flat black manic gleam in the Immortal's eyes: a wolfish shadow. "Little MacLeod has lost his friend," he taunted, curling his lips. "Little MacLeod doesn't know where to find him again. Camilla was a bitch, wasn't she? _Puta major que todo mundo._ I never liked her. I'm glad she's dead."

MacLeod inhaled, skin going cold. Without thinking, he grabbed the other Immortal by his shirt. "Tell me who you are," he yelled. The Immortal started laughing. MacLeod slammed him against the brick wall, again and again. The Immortal's skull cracked, but he was still laughing. MacLeod punched him.

Sirens echoed off the brick walls. "You'd better run," said the Immortal through a clownish smile, fat swollen lips, bloody and bruised, nearly unrecognizable. The sirens grew louder. The hail finally stopped. In a panicked moment, MacLeod put his arms over his head. The goat-faced man scrambled away. MacLeod didn't know what to do. What could he do? He picked up his katana and fled just as the police arrived.

He was gone from Bogotá by morning, taking only money, his cell phone, and his sword.

~~~

MacLeod made his way to Quito and into a hotel near the airport that rented rooms by the hour. He spent a long time in the filthy shower before collapsing on the rented sheets tossed quickly over the bed. When he woke, he took out his cell phone and called Joe.

"He had a smile like a goat eating peanut butter," he said, with a decided lack of charity. He watched traffic through the one window in his room. Overhead, airplanes descended toward the airport.

"And you're certain he knew Camilla?"

MacLeod suppressed a sigh, rubbed his forehead and his eyes. "Yeah." Joe was silent on the other end, and something prickled at the back of MacLeod's neck. "What is it? What have you found?"

"I don't know," said Joe, but there was a hanging weight at the end of his sentence, something left unsaid.

MacLeod sat up. "Joe."

He heard Joe's breathing, low and slightly raspy. "Look, this may be nothing."

"Tell me." MacLeod pressed the cell phone closer to his ear, as if that would help reveal all the answers to his many questions.

"There's a thing that happens sometimes between Immortal teachers and their students. It doesn't happen all the time, only with certain kinds of Immortals. The old ones, usually, because they've been around long enough for a pattern to develop. The clearest example that you'd be familiar with was Rebecca."

MacLeod hit on it a second before Joe continued. "The crystals," he said.

"Right," said Joe. "With Rebecca, she gave each of her students a crystal. That bound them together, made them a group. Not in any sort of organized way. I'm not saying they sent each other Christmas cards or called on birthdays, but they were, in a way, siblings. They have this thing, whatever it is, linking them together. Rebecca was unique. The crystals were a physical, tangible trait, but it's not usually anything so concrete. It can be distinctive, like a certain style of fighting, or less obvious, like a particular attitude or knowledge, or--" he trailed off, and there was a note in his voice that raised the hair on MacLeod's arms.

"Or an obsession," finished MacLeod. "Cassandra," said MacLeod, with a sinking feeling.

"No. It's Kronos. This is all Kronos. Camilla was Cassandra's student, yes, but she was also Kronos's," Joe continued. "After Methos left, I started cross-referencing everything we knew about Camilla with both Cassandra and Kronos's chronicles, to see if I could find other parallels, something to give us a clue. It took some time, with nearly ten millennia between them all. I found three Immortals, in addition to Camilla, with connections to both Cassandra and Kronos. One of them is probably your guy. Diego de Almagro, born 1489, Granada, sometimes called El Cabra--The Goat--by his admirers, first killed by his young wife. Knife thrust to the belly. But he revived and she told everyone that her husband was the devil and couldn't be killed, until the story reached one of our Watchers. It was then that we learned Almagro, thought to be the bastard child of a nobleman, was raised by a maiden aunt. This aunt was wealthy and generous, and provided for him, but when he was a teenager he reported her to the Spanish Inquisition as a witch and she was drowned. He then later joined Pizarro's first expedition to the new world, and our Watcher went with him."

Outside the window, MacLeod could see vendors pushing carts up and down the streets. Children yelled as they played soccer barefoot in an empty lot overgrown with weeds.

MacLeod reached out with his senses. He could feel and hear the other occupants of the hotel moving around in their rooms. Without a doubt, he knew Kronos had sought out Almagro on purpose, keeping tabs on Cassandra throughout the years, quietly appropriating her students. However, Cassandra had been a seer; some part of her knew, with each of her students, what their potential might be. And then there was Kronos. The circle made by the Horsemen, and Cassandra and Camilla, and himself, expanded to encompass Almagro. "Kronos was a conquistador," said MacLeod, with realization. "That's the connection."

"It's one of the few times we had a Watcher on him," said Joe. "Courtesy of Almagro."

"Who else?" he asked.

There was a weighted silence. It was asking a lot of Joe and of their friendship, too close to influencing the Game. It didn't matter that these Immortals were hunting and would likely seek him out. It was still interfering. MacLeod waited, although it took all of his self-restraint not to beg, not to use guilt to make Joe give him the information he wanted. Methos was Joe's friend, too. MacLeod knew Joe was suffering a similar heartbreak and he didn't want to contemplate what Joe would feel if he failed to find Methos in time.

"Two others," said Joe, after a minute passed. "A male, over 1000 years old, goes by the name Keyumars. Persian. Tall, good looking, wears his hair long, a bit of a playboy. He went off radar about two years ago. And a woman, Russian. We have no pre-Immortal information on her, but she goes by the name of Anastasia, and she was young when she first died--eighteen or nineteen years old. They both had Cassandra as their first teacher and later met Kronos. That's all I could find."

The significance of four Immortals banding together wasn't lost on MacLeod. It was almost like Kronos had tried to create a new incarnation of the Horsemen. On the opposite corner from the hotel, a small shop was busy with customers entering and exiting. They sold fruit and fresh baked bread. He could smell the warm yeasty aroma. He wondered where Methos was at that moment, and what he was thinking of. There was no way to know for certain, but MacLeod did not believe it was mere coincidence that four Immortals could have known both Cassandra and Kronos. The only explanation that made sense was that Kronos had sought out each of them for his own purposes.

"Thanks, Joe." He wanted to say so much more. He didn't think he could do this without Joe, without these calls, listening to Joe's whisky-rough voice that grounded him, that kept him from becoming entirely lost. "Thanks," he repeated. The sharp sun made him squint and drew water from his eyes. He turned away from the window.

After a moment, Joe answered. "Anything, Mac. Any time. Just give me a call."

~~~

MacLeod left South America, not expecting to find Almagro again, not so soon. He crossed the globe. Sydney. Morocco. Then Ireland. Then Greece. Then Canada. China. Jamaica. Egypt. Panama. The world became small.

Every month or two, MacLeod was challenged--hotheaded Immortals in search of the oldest, but no one else mentioned Camilla, or had that same shadow of a wolf in their eyes. Once he drew his sword, the Immortals mostly ran away except for a very few. Those that persisted lost their heads. He knew it was changing him, the isolation, the quickenings. He saw it in the faces of those few he met who were not looking for Methos, who were only in the wrong place at the wrong time--wide-eyed, with wary expressions and resigned fear, surprised that he let them live.

Through Joe, Amanda arranged to meet him in Marrakech. She waited for him, sitting at an outside table at a teahouse in the busy touristy center, lovely in shades of rose with pale yellow accents. MacLeod watched her through binoculars from the top of a building one street over, far enough away to avoid Immortal presence. She tapped her fingers on the table, kept glancing at her watch, looking earnestly out to the churning crowd. He let her wait. He couldn't face her, afraid of what she would say when she looked at him. Finally she left, wiping at her cheek. He turned away and stared out to the dusty golden skyline.

In every city, he wandered the streets, kept his mind clear and blank, ready for ambush or assault, almost welcoming the challenges. He tried not to think of Methos, and failed. Late at night, or sometimes early in the quiet hush of morning, he closed his eyes and hoped and prayed that Methos was safe, far away, and waiting for him.

~~~

Eighteen months passed. The multi-colored leaves of upstate New York decorated the side of the road and the top of his rented car. He knew the direction and the address, although he had never been there: in the middle of the Catskills, at the top of a winding road. Cassandra's home was a wooden castle, a log cabin on steroids on acres of land, perched at the top of a hill. The honey brown wood gleamed in the morning light.

One week prior, an envelope had been left for him at the front desk of the Pensión Mari-Luz in Barcelona. It was a baby green color and scented. Inside was a Tarot card--The High Priestess. With the card was a note, written in a childish hand.

_You know the way. She always wanted you to visit._

A few days later, MacLeod got on a plane for New York.

The sky was a pale blue, clear except for the dusting of clouds in the distant horizon. He parked and exited the car, the door slam echoing down the valley. Chilly wind blew through his jacket and he lifted the collar ineffectually, rubbed his hands. Trees whispered in the wind, birds squawked and chirped in the distance. He scanned the house and the grounds. It appeared peaceful and quiet, almost idyllic, but MacLeod could feel the heavy weight of abandonment.

He walked slowly up the drive, footsteps crunching over the gravel. The front door swished quietly open, left unlocked. Inside, the air was stale. A clock ticking was the only sound. No sign of forced entry. No sign of disorder or disturbance of any sort.

Quietly, he explored each room. Layers of dust covered every piece of furniture. In the upper floors he found the bedroom, delicately furnished, the bed made. The walk-in closet was ruffled with dresses and shirts clinging to hangers, and drawers open and bursting with clothing, as if someone had dressed without tidying. The clothing smelled like Cassandra, pine needles and cinnamon.

On the dresser, he saw a picture of himself and Cassandra, framed in lovely wrought iron. There were other pictures of men and women he didn't recognize. Two frames were empty. In the wastebasket he found the pictures, scribbled on with a marker to obscure the faces and then torn into shreds.

He touched dying flowers left across an altar, petals left to rot in a bowl of water, long since evaporated. He took the bronze knife that lay diagonally across the altar, the tip darkened with dried blood, and put it in his pocket. Curiously, the bed was neatly made and free of dust, as if recently slept on. Back downstairs, he stood in the center of the large living room. The entire house reminded him of that long ago cabin in the woods with its fire and its magic, but whatever magic that might be held in the house was nearly gone but for the tang of violence left in the air like a bad aftertaste.

He stepped into the kitchen through the archway from the living room and found the first signs of disturbance. On the counter a bottle of red wine lay on its side, and there was a large purple stain on the floor where the wine had spilled. The tablecloth was skewed, nearly torn from the table.

Dinner was set for two, although the plates had crashed to the floor, glasses shattered and glistening in the light. A large knife was imbedded in the wood of a cabinet door. Two of the kitchen chairs were overturned. There were plates of food ready to be served, the food long since reduced to shriveled, gnarled, unrecognizable pieces, dried nearly to dust and left to become a home to flies.

Dried drops of blood spotted the floor, leading to the back door. MacLeod moved carefully through the debris. The cheerful green curtain on the door hung from a broken rod. A smeared bloody handprint decorated the door, stark against the ivory paint.

Outside, the breeze blew clean, fresh air. There was a deck, speckled with more blood, patio furniture scattered and tossed askew.

To the left of the house, a little further down on level ground, MacLeod spotted a wooden, rustic structure, stout pillars circling a covered pool, picnic tables. He heard a faint, soft flutter and tapping noise, followed a moment later by the shivering cold slide of Immortal presence.

As he circled around, he saw a woman sitting at a picnic table. She appeared to flicker in and out of his vision, perhaps a trick of the light and of the pillars interrupting his view. Young-looking and pretty, she looked like an escapee from a reality television show, fashionably dressed in tight jeans and a designer tank top with a printed image on the front he recognized from the streets of Paris. Her russet-colored hair was pulled to the side, hoop earrings dangled from her ears.

She shuffled Tarot cards, hands moving fast. Part, cut, shuffle, spread, repeat. Faster and faster. He watched her expertly stack the deck, then place the cards in a cross formation, seven cards total, face down. Her fingernails were painted a frosty pink, the enamel chipped. From the way she sat he thought she must be carrying a weapon hidden from his view beneath the table.

"You go first," she said, her voice a surprising deep, smoky timber, colored with the faintest trace of an eastern European accent. Her glossy lips and pale eyes outlined in green smiled at him.

MacLeod took one step closer. "Anastasia," he said.

Her lip curled. She snapped her fingers. "Very good. That son of a goatherd told me you're no fool." She leaned in a little, loudly whispering, "I knew you'd come here eventually." She tapped the cards. "It's all in here. Well, pick a card. All right, if you won't go first, I guess I will." She flipped over the bottom card. "Oh, the King of Wands," she said, clucking. "So early revealed."

MacLeod watched her. She was a sugared princess socialite with perfect features and an air of disassociated boredom. "I don't know where Methos is," he said, preemptively.

She sighed and revealed a second card. From his position, he could just make out the image of a lion. "I love this house," she said, as if she were sitting with friends at a café. "Don't you love this house? I used to come here for tea. She always had the best tea. Peaceful. That's what it is. Peaceful."

His skin crawled, his stomach turned. Slowly, he circled a little further around her, glancing back to the house, to the trees dancing in the wind at the edge of the yard. "What game are you playing?" He spoke through gritted teeth.

Anastasia rolled her eyes. "I don't know. I'm making it up as I go along." She flipped another card. MacLeod looked down and saw a man and woman holding hands.

"Did she cook you dinner before you killed her?"

The green make-up made her eyes misty like the sea. For a moment he thought he saw regret, a pale sorrow. Anastasia wrinkled her nose, shook her head in a quick jerk, turned over another card. She picked it up and showed it to him. "The Fool." She gave a coy little smile. "Now I wonder who that could be."

MacLeod refrained from reaching for his sword. "Tell me, what are you and your friends planning to do if you do find him? There can be only one."

The next card showed Death on a horse. Anastasia lit up. "My favorite card."

"She was your first teacher, wasn't she?" said MacLeod, choosing not to comment on the Tarot cards. "She took you in, cared for you. Showed you how to survive, told you who you were. Was she the one who taught you how to read cards? What else did she teach you? Where would you be without her? Did she open her door for you, invite you in? Did she make you feel at home? Is that why you're here, in her house, with her things? You can't even bring yourself to wipe her blood off the floor."

Anastasia put her hands over her ears. "Shut up, shut up, shut up," she yelled. "I can't hear you." She shook her head violently and then suddenly stopped. Holding her hands up, she breathed in and smiled, calmly placed her hands back down on the table. Her gaze met his. "You know how to find him," she said dulcetly. "Of course you know. You must know. Who else but you would know? Only you."

MacLeod ignored her. "Why did you rip up the pictures of you and Cassandra? Did you love her? What did Kronos say to you to make you turn on your own teacher?"

Anastasia didn't answer. She turned over another card. Judgment. "I didn't want to kill her," she said, sullenly, eyes sparkling with unshed tears. "I had no choice. She didn't give me a choice."

"How's that?" he asked.

She lifted her gaze to meet his and all trace of regret or guilt vanished. Instead he saw the same madness he'd seen in Camilla's eyes, the same hunger. "Because she wouldn't help. She wouldn't give him up. At least Kronos didn't lie. In the end, after everything she said about Methos, everything he did to her, she refused. How's that for hypocrisy?"

Lightning quick, she leapt from behind the table. He saw the flash of black metal and had just enough warning to swerve away, the loud crack of gunfire echoing down the valley. A bullet grazed hot against his cheek, another hit him in the shoulder. He spun and drew his sword, swinging, aiming for her neck.

Standing on top of the table, she opened her mouth and screamed: high-pitched, reverberating, growing and growing. His ears exploded with pain. He cradled his head, sword falling from his hands, but he couldn't hear it clatter to the ground.

Suddenly, it stopped. He looked up but was alone. Anastasia's scream was still bouncing around in his head, the pain causing flashes of light behind his eyes. Clutching his wounded shoulder, he looked down at the one remaining unrevealed card on the table, the center card. He turned it over. It was the Devil, in reverse.

~~~

He settled in New York, sinking into the anonymity of the big city.

With Joe's help, he rented a loft apartment in downtown Brooklyn under the name Duncan Nash. It made him feel close to Connor. It wasn't the most airtight of aliases, but he made sure Duncan Nash had a life--there were pictures in the apartment of a family man with many friends, and mail that came in every day indicating a busy life and a job in real estate. There was a doorman, but MacLeod had a key to the maintenance entrance and never went in the front.

Fall brought a chilly breeze blowing in off the East River. Despite the cold, MacLeod sat at an empty table outside a tiny West Village cafe that offered siphon coffee and ordered a double. Whoever had sat at the table previously left a newspaper face down on the table. MacLeod recognized it as _The Village Voice_. With chapped hands, he picked it up and paged through it, reading half an article here and there. Thinking of maybe picking up a movie in the evening, he paused through the entertainment section but didn't see anything that interested him. He flipped the newspaper closed and took another sip of his coffee.

The back of _The Voice_ had colored advertisements all along its borders. In the center, the newspaper listed what looked like singles ads. At the top, the heading said _Missed Connections._

Idly, he read the first one: _We bumped into each other on the steps of St. Bartholomew's. You wore a red sweater and had a smile like sunshine. Meet me on those steps again tomorrow. I'll be waiting._

MacLeod smiled, intrigued by the romance. He read the next few ads. Most were explicit requests for illicit sexual encounters. Some were angry diatribes, petty irritations at perceived insults from strangers--_To the a-hole who revs his motorcycle down my street at 4 AM, go eff yourself_\--but a few were lonely souls reaching out into the ether, searching for someone to connect with. They were random encounters, unknowns passing on the street or on the subways: a touch or a look or a glance all too brief, and then gone.

In the middle of the page, his attention was caught by a word.

_You walked into my flat, and I threw you a can of beer. Then you said my name, a word now lost of all meaning. I think I loved you even then._

The afternoon sun glared across his eyes and the page blurred. He felt stupid, slow, not daring to believe his eyes, and read the same words over and over again. He knocked his coffee cup by accident and it spilled its last dregs before falling to the ground, shattering into tiny shards.

Methos.

~~~

For the benefit of anyone who might be watching, MacLeod made a show of cleaning the mess he'd made by taking that page of _The Voice_ with those precious words on it and using it as a rag, making sure it was ruined beyond recognition.

He apologized to the wait staff of the café, paid for his coffee, and marched down the street unaware of his direction. Walking calmed his racing heart. He ducked into the entrance foyer of restaurant and picked up another Village Voice from a stand. He flipped it over, and saw the same words. The paper in his hands shook.

At a newsstand on the corner of Broadway and 4th he stopped to buy a magazine. He grabbed the first thing his hands fell on, flipped it open and pretended to read. Next to the cash register was a pile of _Village Voices_. Casually, he flipped the first one over and his eyes found the ad in the middle of the back page. The newsstand also had on older copy from a previous week, way at the bottom of the pile. MacLeod hesitated, then turned the older newspaper over and scanned the page. There, in the lower left corner he saw the same words.

He walked away from the newsstand. On autopilot, he went down into a subway station and got on an uptown train. It was rush hour, and he had to stand, swaying to the back and forth rhythm of the train. He felt blank. He couldn't think, afraid to believe, to hope. As he clung to the metal pole on the train, he looked down and noticed for the first time the coffee staining his shirt and part of his trousers. He rubbed at the stain, ineffectually. In midtown, he exited the train at 42nd Street. He walked to Times Square and bought a ticket for a movie that had already started, then paid for popcorn and a soda before entering the theatre to sit in the dark. It was an action film with loud explosions and car chases. He slumped in his chair and covered his face with his hand, letting the soda and popcorn sit untouched.

Methos. His pulse still raced from the shock of reading those words, of the wild and impossible hope. In the dark, his recurring dream came back to him--the man in the distance, the panic as he tried to reach him in time. MacLeod was heart-sore, and tired, and so very afraid.

Before the film ended, MacLeod slipped away through a side exit. He thought of calling Joe, but went down into the subway instead. He changed trains indiscriminately and at random. It was close to one in the morning when he returned to his apartment.

The apartment was dark, the blinds closed and the only light came from various electric readouts on the DVD player or the microwave. Without turning the lights on, MacLeod sat at his computer. He used a neighbor's unlocked WiFi and searched the web.

In addition to _The Village Voice_, there was a website dedicated to missed connections, as well as forums on every Craig's List for every major city.

From memory, he typed the words into a search engine and pulled up entries going back to when he first arrived in New York.

Anastasia had said he could find Methos if he really wanted to.

MacLeod sat in the dark of his apartment with a blank piece of paper and a pen. He let the words come.

~~~

In the morning, he visited the offices at _The Village Voice_, and spoke to a young woman with red hair and a crooked smile.

"It's faxed in," she said when he asked about the ad. She had ink on her fingers and smelled like newsprint. MacLeod could just make out the claptrap orchestra of printing presses coming through the walls. "Every week, without fail. At first we ignored it. We don't accept fax submissions anymore. They come in by email or through our online interface. We get thousands of 'Missed Connection' ads a week and can only publish about twenty on the back page. They're carefully chosen. But every week, the same ad was sent in. The editor took notice." She shrugged. "Bit of a mystery. You're the first to ask about it," she added with a sweet smile. MacLeod did not ask her name. No names. No connections.

MacLeod took out a folded piece of paper from his pocket and slid it across to the young woman. "Can you run that in the next printing?"

She looked at it. "I'm sorry. I can't guarantee anything. I'm just an intern. The editor decides."

"Please," he asked, just managing to keep his voice from breaking.

She had large brown eyes and she looked at MacLeod curiously. There must have been something in his face, something of the sorrow and desperation he felt because she cocked her head slightly and took the piece of paper and said, "All right. I'll make it happen."

MacLeod could have kissed her but managed a heart-felt thank you instead. He turned to leave but hesitated. He reached for a piece of paper and wrote 'Nash' next to his private cell number. "Call me if anything… unusual happens."

She looked like she was about to ask for more information, but her dark eyes held his and she nodded slowly. He left before he could betray himself further, remembering to leave from a back exit.

~~~

_The day we met, we walked together by a river. I was completely in awe and trying to hide it, afraid you would think less of me. I wanted so badly to be your friend. _

~~~

It was the slowest, most excruciating courtship and flirtation imaginable, limited to the schedule of weekly publication.

MacLeod lived for Thursdays, the day the new _Voice_ came out.

It became a conversation.

_Once I called you in the middle of the night for no reason. You didn't hang up and we talked until morning. You kept me on the phone. I almost told you everything. I never thanked you._

We met under a bridge, fighting. You were soaked to the bone. I wanted to take you home but you said no and slipped away into the night.

_Without thinking, I got on a plane and flew across the world to warn you about your ex-girlfriend coming to town. It was just an excuse._

I remember the first time you stepped into my home. You smiled at me. You wore red pants and looked so amused. Did my delight at seeing you show?

_I'm so sorry I couldn't change his mind. I wanted to tell you how sorry I was, but was afraid of hurting you more. He loved you. It was the only thing that almost stopped him from seeking darkness._

Sunset. You broke my heart that day beside your car.

_I know._

There was nothing you could have done. It's taken me a while to accept it, but I have. I've accepted his choice and what I did. I miss you.

_She and I shared a hotdog on a hot summer day, dodging crowds on the boardwalk and watching people shoot each other with paintballs. I left her alone and called you from a pay phone. You weren't there and I didn't leave a message._

I would have talked to you for as long as you wanted. I would have listened to everything you wanted to say, even if it was nothing at all, even if it was just silence. I'm sorry I wasn't there when you called.

_Before we met, I read all about you. I didn't think you were real._

I could say the same about you.

_One night at the bar, drunk. I tripped and you caught me before I fell and made a joke at my expense. I almost snogged you right there._

One night at the bar, drunk. Walking out, you tripped and I caught you. It was the first time I ever thought of you like that. I should have kept you in my arms. Dragged you back home. But I let you go.

_Flirt. If I had known I would have made the moves on you earlier. Shame. In truth, my love, I wasn't ready._

You still owe me one carton of strawberry ice cream, a rice cooker, and a pair of Testoni shoes. Don't think I've forgotten.

_Leaving you asleep in my bed was one of the hardest things I've ever had to do._

It took me a while to forgive you, but it was only because I wasn't aware how far you'd traveled into my heart and it hurt so much.

_He returned, a knife thrust through my heart. When I left him, all I could think of was getting to you. But she was with you already. He probably knew that. _

You may be an irritating bastard, but you're still my friend. You know better than I how the past cannot be changed. It can only be accepted.

_Have you been reading too many fortune cookies again?_

You ate my food and slept on my couch and I complained. You took my keys and then gave them back. You broke my vase. Strange how I was still sad to see you move out. I liked having you near me.

_I'm so far away from you. Do you know how far? I could be next door and still be as far as the moon. I don't know how to be this far away from you._

During the darkest period of my life, you were there, like a beacon of everything strong and generous and wonderful. I cling to that, even now. Hold on.

_I miss you, too. How long do I have to wait?_

~~~

He dreamt of the beach and the man in the distance. MacLeod ran, as fast as he could with heart bursting and sweat dripping down his face, struggling against the ever-shifting sand. The man turned to face him and it was Methos, too far away. The harder MacLeod ran, the further away Methos went. The wind blew stronger. As if he were made of sand, Methos started to dissolve. Sand poured over MacLeod, down his throat, blinding his vision. He couldn't breathe. He drowned in sand.


	5. Missed Connections: Part 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Noise swelled around him, but MacLeod only heard the pounding of his feet against the pavement and his rhythmic breathing loud in his ears. The crowds were a blur, a mosaic of scattered dim lights and movement barely registered, serving only to slow him down like a thousand hands reaching out to grab hold as he struggled to get free.

**Part 5**

~~~

MacLeod woke with a start, drenched in sweat. He was on the couch. The apartment was warm, windows closed, blinds drawn. He lay for a moment, staring at the ceiling and breathing through the adrenaline rush.

_I miss you, too._

The words were burned into his vision. He saw them when he closed his eyes, listening to the ambient sounds of city living. The time on the DVD player said it was past eight in the evening. He hadn't intended to fall asleep. He swung his legs around and sat up, rubbing his face. His glance fell on his cell phone. The moment before it rang, he shivered.

It was a number he didn't recognize. He stared at the display, fighting a sudden urge to throw the phone out the window. Instead, he pressed 'send'.

"Mr. Nash?" said a hesitant, slightly familiar voice. "This is Beth, from _The Village Voice._ Something's happened."

His stomach clenched, his hands went cold. "Tell me," he said.

Through their tenuous connection composed of airwaves and electricity, he sensed her unease. "Someone hacked into our computers last night. It's happened a couple times in the past, so I almost didn't think anything of it. Usually it's just some whackjob trying to slip in some propaganda or whatever. We always catch it before anything is printed. But, this time, there was nothing put into our system, nothing in the layout files, in our email, nothing. Only, our database was breached, where we keep emails, scans of faxes, etc."

MacLeod's vision darkened. He breathed and his blood started pumping again, burning like acid through his veins.

"But," she continued. "We get so many ads for 'Missed Connections' every day. There's no way to verify any of it, we don't even try. We keep no solid contact information." She said it reassuringly. "Whoever he is, wherever, he's safe."

She was astute, had picked up on so much, and spoke with such certainty, such conviction, MacLeod almost believed her. He wanted to believe her but the dread and panic of his dream kept thrumming through his mind. "I need to know what was in that database," he said.

There was a pause, then, "All right. Give me a moment."

She put him on hold. Fighting a need to _do something_, he forced himself to control his breathing. He poured himself a mug of tepid, stale coffee.

Hold music chimed in his ear. He placed the rim of the mug against his lips, warm liquid poured down his throat, when Immortal presence flared white-hot and pin-sharp, like a knifepoint scraped down his back. The mug shattered as it hit the floor.

He was out the door in less than a minute, Beth and _The Village Voice_ forgotten, cell phone stuffed into a pocket. He followed the whisper of presence into the chilled spring New York night.

He saw a man, tall with dark hair, disappear down into a subway station.

~~~

Down subway stations, into trains, into Manhattan, MacLeod chased. He lost his quarry in the rabbit warren tangle of narrow streets that comprised most of downtown New York City, spending precious minutes combing each street. Barred from many of the buildings, he began to despair when he sensed the flicker of presence. The Immortal was too far away for MacLeod to see his face, blending into the crowds around Wall Street.

The flicker of presence drove MacLeod further north, into Chinatown, into Soho, back and forth, across Manhattan.

In the bright lights and constant activity of St Mark's Place, MacLeod spotted the Immortal standing still in a churning sea of pedestrians and NYU students. He was smiling, and had large dark eyes and pale skin, his hair swept back. His smile broadened before he disappeared.

MacLeod ran after him. Night descended and the lights of the square glared. He caught a glimpse of the Immortal turning a corner, moving further east. MacLeod followed. The Immortal slipped easily around pedestrians, but MacLeod had power and he spotted him disappearing into the darker streets of Alphabet City.

Over the pounding in his ears, MacLeod heard the whine of traffic on Roosevelt Drive. Without pausing, he dodged cars, crossing the wide highway to the park on the other side. Cars honked, tires squealed.

The stink of the East River wafted over him. MacLeod slowed, regulated his breathing. He unsheathed his sword, walking carefully down to the promenade. The sky was cloudless, leaving the moon free to spill its light everywhere.

A game was ending in the baseball diamond, the players and spectators laughing and talking. MacLeod held his sword close to his body, hiding it in the folds of his coat. The wind off the water cut like a knife. Although it was early spring, the night was cold. His hands numbed. He moved further away from the baseball diamond, to a small grove of trees and the uneven ground of a construction site.

It started at the base of his spine, rushed up his back to sink into his neck. Immortal presence buzzed, rattling his teeth more than the chill in the air. MacLeod turned in a circle, calling out, "You invited me here. The least you can do is show yourself."

Laughter echoed, light and cheerful sounding, ringing through the night air. "Duncan MacLeod," cried the Immortal in cultured tones. He pronounced MacLeod's name loftily, with flair. "At last we meet. I've heard so much about you."

"What have you heard?" MacLeod watched the moving shadows, listening to the gentle sound of the river rushing along.

"Oh, this and that," said the Immortal. "Mostly that." A man emerged from between veils of darkness. His bright white teeth glowed in his broad grin, as if he were posing for the cameras, waving to his fans. Then his eyes hardened. "The Highlander, brave Immortal, defender of the innocent, best friend to the one, the only oldest of us all," he taunted.

MacLeod felt cold, every muscle in his body stretched taut. "You must be Keyumars."

"At your service," Keyumars bowed. "Do you know what my name means? It means… I am the first, like Adam," he said with a wave of his hand and a smile.

Keyumars leaped and attacked. MacLeod turned into the direction of the swing, but when he turned back the Immortal had vanished into the shadows under the trees. Laughter rang again.

"It was _so_touching," said Keyumars, once again speaking from the shadows, voice thrown, coming from nowhere and anywhere. "And clever. All those messages, endearing love notes. We almost didn't catch it. But I knew if I watched you, eventually you would lead me to him."

It was just a slight change in the air, the barest whisper of movement. But it was enough to warn him. MacLeod raised his sword. Blades clashed. With speed, he drove Keyumars back. Under the stark moonlight, he noticed the shadow of the wolf in the Immortal's smile, in the glint of his eyes.

Cruelly, the man resembled Methos, skin pale in the moonlight, dark hair falling softly.

MacLeod disarmed him, too easily. Keyumars smiled, barely out of breath. He knew he had the advantage: MacLeod could not kill him, would not, if there was a chance of information, of finding Methos. "Where is he?" MacLeod said, sword to the Immortal's neck.

Keyumars laughed. "You mean, you still don't know?"

Before MacLeod could react, his sword was swept aside. With alarming speed, the man knocked MacLeod onto his back. Winded, MacLeod rolled to the side, managing to keep hold of his sword. There was a cut against his cheek, a sharp, bright pain, but he brought his sword around and met Keyumars's blade. The river moved placidly, the trees danced in the wind.

"You amaze me," said Keyumars, still smiling, but he struggled against MacLeod's greater strength. "After I went through all this trouble to distract you."

MacLeod punched him in the face. Keyumars staggered backward, but kept his balance. "Where is he?" MacLeod asked again.

Keyumars wiped the blood from his mouth, shadows exaggerating his wide wolfish smile. "You know," he said, as if bestowing a blessing. "You've always known."

At that moment, the scattered lights of the park flickered. The night glowed as lightning arced upward through the clouds in jagged spears. Both men looked up to the sky and back into Brooklyn. MacLeod felt his blood drain. Thunder boomed like a rolling bass drum.

MacLeod saw the lights of the Manhattan skyline extinguish in blocks, cascading out. He turned his attention to Keyumars who was smiling a secret smile just as the park lights winked out. Instinct made MacLeod move and bring up his sword to block Keyumars's.

"Which do you think is stronger? The goat or the weasel? Tell me, MacLeod, are you as fast as I?" He smirked, his eyes glinting off the shine from their swords. Nearby, MacLeod barely registered the noise of cars braking and tires squealing on Roosevelt Drive as motorists were forced to adjust to the lack of light. Cars crashed, screams rose into the air. "Who can reach Methos first, I wonder." With a grunt, Keyumars pushed him back.

Before MacLeod could recover, Keyumars had already fled into the layered darkness. MacLeod cried out and followed, desperation and fear making him beg the enveloping shadows not to go, not to leave him.

MacLeod went down on his knees, crying. His sword rolled to a stop nearby. Gravel bit into his hands. They said he knew, that he had always known. The cold frigid air was harsh in his lungs.

_I'm so far away from you. Do you know how far? I could be next door and still be as far as the moon. I don't know how to be this far away from you._

Oh, Methos. MacLeod stood up and started running. He ran as hard and as fast as he could.

~~~

New York City plunged into darkness. People left their apartment buildings, exiting stores and restaurants and movie theatres, looking up at the sky with confusion.

Cars honked, drivers yelled from their windows. The subways stopped. Police tried to shepherd the growing throngs, asking everyone to return to their homes.

Noise swelled around him, but MacLeod only heard the pounding of his feet against the pavement and his rhythmic breathing loud in his ears. The crowds were a blur, a mosaic of scattered dim lights and movement barely registered, serving only to slow him down like a thousand hands reaching out to grab hold as he struggled to get free.

Despite the crowds and the millions of New Yorkers stranded in Manhattan or Brooklyn, MacLeod managed to cross the Brooklyn Bridge in record time, ignoring the burn of his muscles and the ache in his lungs. Less than forty minutes had passed by the time he arrived in his neighborhood. He skidded to a halt, breathing hard, standing outside of his building. The air crackled with unspent electricity. The streets were less crowded than Manhattan, but he still saw people gathered on corners.

Catching his breath, he hunched over, silently pleading with Methos, with himself and God and unknown spirits, anything, anyone that listened. He stood when he heard a whoop from a police car, and he moved out of the street to let it pass. The police car turned left at the next corner. MacLeod followed, slowly at first, then faster. As he turned the corner, he saw a building a few blocks east of his street surrounded by police cars and fire engines. There was a crowd of people on the opposite side of the street, obviously displaced, forced to evacuate the building. He walked closer, staying in the darker shadows, and stopped just out of sight. Tiny shards of glass crunched beneath his shoes. MacLeod looked up and despite the lack of light could just make out the shattered windows of one of the top floors.

It was a converted office building, like his. With no way past the police, he found a side entrance, jimmied the lock. A doorman was speaking to an officer. MacLeod slipped past and into the stairwell. He ran up the stairs to the top, carefully opening the door, peering down the hallway. The automatic sprinklers had been activated and the carpet was sodden with water. The walls were still damp, droplets condensing, falling with audible plops to the floor.

Scorch marks cut deep grooves along the wall. The stench of ozone was so strong he put the back of his hand up to his face.

He walked slowly down the hall, pausing briefly at the threshold of the final apartment. Time slowed. Sound buzzed in his ears, drowning out the noise filtering in from the streets. All he could hear was the rasp of his breathing. There were officers in the apartment, talking and taking pictures, although he couldn't hear them and they seemed not to notice as he calmly walked forward. He didn't stop to wonder why. It was as if he moved at a different speed, making himself invisible. His fingers went numb. His hands tingled.

It was a one-bedroom apartment, furnished eclectically with non-matching pieces probably bought at a thrift store. The coffee table was splintered into pieces. The sodden couch was burned black. The acrid smell of melted synthetic fabrics mixed freely with the ozone. Black scorch marks ringed around fried electrical sockets. Quickening damage was visible on all sides: walls buckled and mottled from the heat, shattered vases, glass everywhere. MacLeod notice the puddles of pink water and the spray of blood along one wall the sprinklers had failed to douse.

The body lay covered chest down near the couch, and the decapitated head lay to one side under a separate sheet. MacLeod went down to his knees, ignoring the wetness seeping through his jeans. Screams clogged in his throat, unable to get out. Unshed tears stung his eyes. With his numb fingers he lifted the sheet away from the head to look at the face contorted in its last throes of life. He couldn't breathe and hadn't been breathing for several minutes. His vision darkened but he looked into the face of the beheaded Immortal and recognized the goat-like features of Diego de Almagro. Next to the body he saw Almagro's rapier lying on the floor outlined by police chalk.

Sound and feeling and emotion returned with an explosive assault and MacLeod let out one low ragged cry of relief. He became visible, and two police officers roughly grabbed him by the arms. Before he was bodily hauled away, his right hand closed around a white square piece of paper that was lying on the floor, hidden under part of the broken coffee table. He didn't know why he grabbed it. It was there and it had belonged to Methos and so he took it.

The police barked at him, threatening arrest and demanding to know how he got into the apartment.

"Sorry," he said. "I'm a friend. I was worried." MacLeod rambled incoherently, visibly distressed. They couldn't get any sense out of him. He let all of his frustration and his fear show. He was shaking and he physically hurt as feeling returned to his limbs. With twin expressions of disgust and annoyance, two policemen escorted him from the building, dragging him over to where the other inhabitants waited, and told him to stay put and that he would be needed for questioning.

MacLeod wiped at his face and tried to collect his thoughts. Methos was out there, somewhere nearby. Anastasia and Keyumars were after him, or perhaps they had already found him. MacLeod's instincts screamed, nearly on fire, and his leg muscles twitched: time was running out. But the trail had gone cold.   
He looked down at the piece of paper in his hands. It was a photograph. He turned it over and saw a picture of Methos and himself from years ago. Before Connor. Before Richie. It was a candid shot and MacLeod had no recollection of the moment it was taken. He was looking at Methos, smiling slightly, with a beer half way to his mouth, his expression one of affectionate annoyance. Indulgent. Next to him, Methos was blurred, caught in motion with zigzagged lines of over-exposed light, head thrown back in laughter. On the other side, Methos had written, _Joe's Bar. 1995_.

MacLeod stared at the picture. The image of Methos made it look like he was melting, dissolving into swirls of light. It reminded him of his dream, of the beach and the sun, sand blowing everywhere and Methos in the distance swept away by the wind.

He felt a flash of Immortal presence, just barely, like a caress. The electricity hadn't returned and the street winnowed away in the distance into darkness. Car headlights only served to blind him further. Several people within the crowd carried flashlights or candles, but he couldn't see all of their faces.

A chime rang, like the bell on a bicycle. MacLeod turned in a circle, trying to locate the source of the presence. A block away, he saw a silhouette of a tall slender man standing in shadow cast by a headlight beam. The bell chimed again, and he turned to see a girl on a bike turn a corner and disappear.

He knew where Methos was. Methos had told him, after all. Maybe Keyumars and Anastasia were right, and he had always known, somehow willfully blind. But the truth was it was safer not to know. Since that night outside the Chateau de Grosbois, MacLeod had lived with the dream of one day finding Methos, of taking him in his arms so they could argue and laugh and fight over who got the last of the ice cream, so he could make love to him again and again. But the dream always soured when he realized hunters would not stop trying to use him to get to Methos. It was a nightmare he didn't believe he would ever be free of.

_She and I shared a hotdog on a hot summer day, dodging crowds on the boardwalk and watching people shoot each other with paintballs. I left her alone and called you from a pay phone. You weren't there and I didn't leave a message._

MacLeod ran in the direction of Coney Island and the ocean.

~~~

The world was reduced to the beat of his footfalls and the dark blur of buildings and trees. Every part of his body ached, but MacLeod only focused on his breathing. In and out, in and out. Coney Island lay dark and quiet under the great expanse of sky. The cold air seemed to lend an edge of brilliance to the stars. Mac ran down Ocean Parkway until the road terminated at a dead end.

The amusement park was dark, gated shut. He walked out to the boardwalk. It was strange to see it empty and devoid of activity. Under starlight, the ocean receded to a fuzzy line of black on black. He had lost track and didn't know what time it was. The moon was high overhead.

He quieted himself, searched with his emotions and feelings, breath puffing before him. He closed his eyes and listened. Faintly, he heard the all too familiar ring of metal. He took a step toward the sound. Then it was like the air itself hushed, like the quiet void of a soundless vacuum. It lasted less than a moment before the air crackled and the dark night split down the middle as another quickening rose into the sky.

If he thought he'd run fast earlier, it was nothing to the effort he poured into his limbs now, feet pounding on the wooden boardwalk. Heart bursting, chest aching, muscles heavy, he pumped his arms, his neck straining forward.

Quickening called to quickening. The heavy thrum of a strong Immortal presence washed over him. He skidded and turned down a walled-off street. Lightning anointed the air, over and over again. A spray painted sign read, "Shoot the Freak, Live Human Targets." Graffiti and paintball splotches decorated every spare inch of brick wall. MacLeod saw an opening leading under the boardwalk. It was like an open maw, a black hole. He charged through into the murky underworld, heedless of the quickening that snapped around him.

It was near pitch black, the only light falling faintly from between slats of the boardwalk, making thin stripes along the bone-white sand. The ground was uneven and sloped downward, into a kind of pit. MacLeod had the impression of a cavernous and complicated system of catacombs.

The last of the quickening crackled and disappeared. His eyes adjusted to the near blackness. He saw two figures, one hunched on the ground on hands and knees, the other approaching with a sword in hand. Metal glinted in the distance. The stench of ozone intensified, trapped under the boardwalk. The air snapped and was alive with the last electric caress of the recently spent quickening. MacLeod saw a dark shape on the ground and knew it must be the body of the recently beheaded Immortal.

The standing figure raised his sword. The man on the ground gasped, lifted his head, obviously trying to coordinate his movements long enough to defend himself, to move or raise his sword.

MacLeod cried out. His voice echoed. The two figures turned their heads. The man on the ground sat in a weak shaft of moonlight, profile revealed. MacLeod almost didn't recognize him. He had changed his hair. It was longer, nearly shoulder length, and in the ghostly light it looked like the color of sand. But it was the profile he knew and loved so well and MacLeod's heart hammered so hard it hurt. He stumbled as he ran. Methos.

Keyumars looked from MacLeod back to Methos. He stood with his sword held high, his expression almost peaceful, eager. He cried out with effort, reached a little higher, and swung.

It was an elastic moment, crystal clear in MacLeod's mind. In a hidden sheath, he carried the bronze knife he had taken from Cassandra's house. He kept it on him for no reason other than it was there and it was old, and had probably been held at one point by Cassandra, Methos, and Kronos. In that wide-open moment, using all of his strength, MacLeod leapt. He flew through the dark and with a grunt tackled Keyumars to the ground, imbedding the knife in his chest clear through to the handle.

Keyumars screamed, but it came out a sick, monstrous sound. His widened eyes stared at MacLeod, the life fading slowly away. In the thin light, his blood looked black as it stained the sand.

Panting, MacLeod disentangled himself from Keyumars, once again struck by the man's resemblance to Methos with his dark hair, pale skin, and strong profile. Movement caught his attention and he turned.

The real Methos was there, alive. With the change in hair color, Methos looked like another man. They stared at each other. In the quiet, MacLeod heard the sound of waves, and the whispers and scratches of vermin and birds.

_You came_, said Methos, with an almost shy smile.

_Methos_, was all MacLeod could answer in return, emotion strangling his throat.

They reached for each other at the same moment, locked in an embrace, chest to chest, heart to beating heart. MacLeod pressed his mouth to Methos's neck, breathing harshly. He closed his eyes. He couldn't believe it. Methos's hands were in MacLeod's hair, then around his back, tightening, squeezing.

"Mac," said Methos, finally pulling away enough to allow speech. He cupped and searched MacLeod's face with wonder and something close to laughter. Shuddering from the effect of taking two quickenings so close together, he smiled wide. Joyous. Happy. "Nice entrance."

MacLeod cracked a grin, relief washed over him like a wave that crashed over the top of his head and he let himself drown in it. He pulled Methos closer, kissing his forehead and cheek and lips and neck. Methos bowed his head, resting it against MacLeod's chest. "After Grosbois, I figured it was my turn," said MacLeod, finally, when he could speak.

They grinned at each other like fools, touching, reaffirming. Two years had passed since the last time MacLeod had touched Methos.

Keyumars lay still in the dark blue underlight. Methos sighed and rose unsteadily to his feet. MacLeod followed and they stood staring at the two bodies lying in ungainly heaps. MacLeod recognized the delicate, petite frame of the other body, the designer jeans belonging to Anastasia. Her head lay gruesomely on its side, the russet hair messy and tangled. Her eyes were closed, her face relaxed in death, pretty like a covergirl. He was sorry she died, feeling a sadness for Anastasia he couldn't put into words.

He and Methos stood for a moment, together, hand in hand, breathing in the salty stench of trash and stale beer mixed in with rotting seaweed, mildew, and bird droppings. The darkness felt alive, and MacLeod knew there were homeless people throughout this little underworld.

Methos picked up his fallen sword. He breathed in deep, bracing himself for one more quickening. MacLeod stepped forward. It should be him that took Keyumars's head.

"Absolutely not," said Methos, without waiting for MacLeod to voice his protest.

"Methos," said MacLeod, in a reasoning tone.

Methos only shook his head and kneeled to yank the knife out of Keyumars's chest.

"Wait," said MacLeod, putting his hand on Methos's arm. "I have an idea," he said, taking out his cell phone and dialing.

~~~

MacLeod called some people he knew in New York who were discreet and quick. With instructions not to remove the knife from the corpse, Keyumars was boxed and shipped as cargo on a freighter leaving the Port of Brooklyn, heading south. The destination of the cargo was to be sent en route.

Then he called Robert and Gina and asked them for a favor. They said yes. They would be on the next flight out.

MacLeod's final phone call was to Joe. He asked Joe to do what he did best. He asked him to watch and record.

~~~

MacLeod and Methos parted in New York, taking separate flights going in separate directions. MacLeod hardly noticed what airport he landed in or flew out of, what country he drove through, or any of the people he spoke with as he made sure no one traced his footsteps. It was a torturous seventy-two hours before he saw Methos again.

As he disembarked the small charter floatplane, the warm velvet Caribbean air caressed his skin. Methos waited at the end of the dock. MacLeod slowed as he approached, standing almost nose-to-nose. Methos still looked foreign, _different_, and MacLeod noticed Methos's atypical silence, the sense of hushed sadness wrapped around him.

With his face serious and his eyes quietly taking stock of MacLeod from head to toe, Methos put his hands on his hips and glared. "Took your time, didn't you. I got in last night. Had to stop both Robert and Gina from combing the world for you. And Joe's no help at all. I don't know why he bothers to call himself your Watcher. Did you get lost?"

MacLeod smiled, and felt everything between him and Methos take one more step toward being all right. "Sorry. Missed my connection out of Helsinki. Snowstorm. Have you ever been stuck in Helsinki in the middle of a snowstorm? I don't recommend the experience."

Methos grabbed one of MacLeod's bags, and they made their way through the lush garden to the main house that stood nestled against a large verdant hill. Beyond the house, the night sky rose dark and smooth and speckled with stars. As they walked, Methos reached across and touched MacLeod's wrist. MacLeod stopped. Neither man needed to say what was on their minds and in their hearts: MacLeod had rushed to arrive as soon as he could, but he would not risk any Immortal following him. With no way of communicating, after three days, Methos had feared the worst.

They paused briefly, just one beat, before continuing, almost as if they had never stopped at all.

~~~

The island used to be one of Robert de Valicourt's pirate smuggling hideouts, serving as a base of operation for his many ventures. It also used to have a sugar cane plantation and supplied safe harbor for various outlaws and escaped slaves from America.

The descendants of those same outlaws and one-time slaves still lived on the island's west end. There was a small resort town and a good income from savvy tourists looking for remote locations for their vacations, mostly from South America, some from the States.

The eastern coast was naturally cut off from the rest of the island by geography, several small mountains and lots of vegetation. In modern days, Robert had made it a summer home. The main house was modest in size, only a few bedrooms and a simple kitchen. It was meant as a retreat, manageable without servants. The garden grew half wild, and although MacLeod believed the Valicourts must retain a gardener and a housekeeper for when they weren't there, he noticed both the house and the garden were in need of some maintenance.

Over two bottles of wine and Gina's excellent chicken marsala, the four Immortals and one mortal sat around the quaint dining table and argued who should take Keyumars's head. Joe, whom Robert and Gina accepted with mild curiosity if a little stiffness, was busy preparing his video camera. The body had arrived a couple of hours ahead of MacLeod.

"Do you think this will work?" asked Robert into the sudden silence that fell over the party.

Everyone looked at MacLeod. "It'll work," he said. "Once we cut his hair and put Methos's clothes on him. It'll be convincing enough." He took a deep breath, and looked at everyone around the table. "I'll do it," he said. The protests started back up again, mainly from Robert and Gina. Methos sat silently watching, toying with his half full wine glass.

"You can't," said Robert. MacLeod gritted his teeth. "Stop and think about it, Mac. You'll be known as the one who took Methos's quickening. You'll be even more hunted than you are already. No, I'll--"

"I'll do it," interrupted Gina. "I'll kill the bastard. I'll take his head with my bare hands."

"Gina, sweetheart," said Robert, a little too condescending. MacLeod winced.

Gina's eyes flashed. "I'll take his head, even if I have to take yours first, Robert. You can't stop me."

Robert, swallowing, calmly placed his hand over his wife's. "I'm not saying you can't. No one would be so foolish," he smiled. "I just think…" he trailed off and something passed between husband and wife which MacLeod could not see. They both softened as they held hands. "You can wear a disguise," said Robert, after a moment. "You'll be an unnamed, mysterious, beautiful Immortal."

Gina smiled with her victory. She moved to rise from the table. MacLeod started to protest. It was far too dangerous for Gina. Even with a disguise, there were only so many female Immortals who could believably take on Methos. "Gina," started MacLeod, "you can't. It's too risky."

"And it's all right for you to risk? Men," she cried, continuing to insult MacLeod in French. Robert, seeing MacLeod on his side, once again tried to reason with his wife. The noise around the table grew and grew until one of the wine bottles flew over their heads and shattered loudly against the brick wall on the other side of the room.

"Enough," said Methos, eyes bright, lips thin. "I appreciate all of you being so eager to take on my demons for me," he said, not looking at any of them. His voice dropped low. "But I'm fighting him."

Robert and Gina sat with identical stunned expressions. MacLeod started to rise. Methos turned and left the room, the door slamming behind him.

After a moment, Robert spoke. "You know, it makes sense. He's in disguise already, he can hardly be accused of killing himself since he'll be, you know, dead, and more importantly, he can't be mistaken for you," he said to MacLeod.

MacLeod didn't answer. He looked at the door. It led to the private beach.

Joe was the only one who looked amused. He turned to MacLeod. "Well, what are you waiting for? Go after him."

He hesitated. Methos very likely wished to be alone. He looked at his friends. Without a word, he rose and followed Methos.

~~~

Moonrise over the ocean.

After the cold months in New York City, the warm, moist air was a balm on his skin and he took a moment to breathe in the scent of night flowers in bloom. He walked through the overgrown garden path, down to the beach. The tide was low, the waves gently rolling in.

He searched for Methos and found him some distance down the coast, a solitary figure. His back was to the house. The image recalled MacLeod's recurring dream so strongly that he stopped and had to breathe through the panic that welled up. Methos was safe. They were safe. The threat was gone. It took a moment for his stomach to unclench. His legs twitched with the need to run, but he walked slowly instead, letting the water lap at his bare feet.

Methos didn't turn to look at him. He was busy searching the sand for bits of shells and rocks, making a small pile.

MacLeod picked up a rock from Methos's pile and threw it out into the ocean. It plopped into the dark waters. Methos made a noise that was a cross between a grunt of protest and a snort of amusement, as if to say 'hey, these are mine,' and 'oooh, good idea.'

They threw rocks and broken shells, trying to outdistance each other. MacLeod was very aware of Methos next to him and wondered where they would go after this final fight with Keyumars was settled and they could put this whole bloody business behind them. It felt like a lifetime had passed since that night in Paris. He wasn't sure they were the same two men anymore. Methos had said he loved him, but that was when he believed he would never see MacLeod again. Their lives were so uncertain, even more so than normal. MacLeod could not bear it if Immortals still came after him in the hopes of finding Methos, but neither was he able to contemplate leaving Methos's side, at least not for a while.

Methos found a good sized rock and heaved it into the ocean. It made a decent _plonk_ and splashed. "Are you worried I can't take him?" Methos asked, finally looking at MacLeod.

MacLeod thought about it, but shook his head. "No, not really." He paused, scratched his nose where sweat had gathered. "Well," he amended. "A little, yes, but only because there are no certainties in life. I know you can take him."

A breeze blew, ruffling Methos's hair. MacLeod stopped to face the dark ocean. The night sky was clear and the stars were numerous and bright. He picked up another rock, letting it rattle around in his closed hand. "It was Anastasia who killed Cassandra. I don't know if you knew that." It seemed important for Methos to know. MacLeod threw the stone. It disappeared against the black night.

It took MacLeod a moment to realize Methos had stopped and was looking at MacLeod with an odd expression. "Did she say why?"

MacLeod realized Methos might not know about Anastasia or the conquistador. Or Keyumars. He might not know about the connection he had to all three, or to Camilla.

"What did Camilla say to you, that night?" MacLeod could still see that startled look on Methos's face, that stark expression of fear.

Methos breathed in, turned to face the ocean. He walked a little forward until the water washed over his feet. "She said I could kill her and it didn't matter, she would still take everything from me. There were others, and they would all hunt you until I gave up. She said, 'look at the camera and smile.'"

MacLeod dusted his hands off on his jeans. He turned back briefly to the house, seeing through a window the silhouettes of his friends still sitting around the table. He wondered what discussions Robert and Gina would have with Joe. "They were students," he said, splashing into the water next to Methos. "Of Cassandra's first, and then later of Kronos's. I don't really know more than that. I don't need to know more," he added with a trace of tired disgust.

"No," said Methos. "That pretty much tells me everything. I can imagine the rest."

"You know," said Macleod. He was getting used to the hair. More and more the Methos he knew returned, as if shedding layers. "In an odd way, I'm not so sure how much any of this was about you. It was more about Kronos and Cassandra. You were just--" He trailed off.

"A catalyst? A prize?" Methos's tone was perfectly irked and it made MacLeod smile.

"You represented something different to each of them," said MacLeod. "The conquistador wanted your power. Anastasia couldn't reconcile Cassandra's unwillingness to betray you with everything she knew to be true about who you were. Keyumars wants to be you, and he's going to get his wish. And Camilla, Camilla was like Kronos. They both wanted to own you, break you, possess you, and if they couldn't do that, then they made sure to take everything away from you and leave you with nothing. But all of them, the whole bloody lot of them, they're all dead, or will be soon. So, I don't know, maybe you could say they all got what they wanted."

Methos stared at him. "You have been eating fortune cookies."

MacLeod chuckled, and the desire to hold Methos was so great he reached out touched Methos's shoulder.

What he had said simplified matters too much. The complexities of Methos's relationship with Kronos were intricate and tangled and impossible to comprehend. He wouldn't even try. Although he found himself almost pitying Kronos. "Do you think he loved you?" he asked, not at all sure he wanted to hear the answer.

Methos scrunched his eyes shut. MacLeod gave in to instinct and stepped close. The gentle waves slapped and lapped against their feet. He kissed Methos, lips dry, just the barest hint of pressure.

He stepped back and looked once again out over the dark ocean, marked by the moon, breathing in the salty sea air. The tide was coming in; the waves grew in size, foaming like race horses. Before he could form the thought, he started taking his shirt off, then unbuttoned and unzipped his jeans.

"What are you doing?" asked Methos with a growing expression of alarm.

"I'm getting naked," said MacLeod matter-of-factly.

Scandalized, mouth opening and closing like a fish, Methos looked back at the house and then at MacLeod.

"Come on," prodded MacLeod.

"MacLeod, we can't," said Methos in a harsh whisper.

Grinning at Methos's suddenly evident modesty, MacLeod hopped from one foot to the other as he struggled with his jeans. Finally naked, he said, "Trust me."

They stood facing each other, one naked, the other withdrawn, assessing. Slowly, Methos reached for his shirt and then took it off. Soon, they were both naked and MacLeod took Methos's hand and led him step by step into the ocean.

At first they were tentative, bracing as each wave splashed, slapping against bare thighs. The waves grew the further out they went. MacLeod leaped as another wave crashed. Salty seawater, moonlight, and Methos's laughter next to him mixed freely. They swam in the ocean, hands reaching across to touch each other, never straying far. They embraced underwater, legs and arms slippery and smooth.

They left the waves behind and swam out almost to the buoy. Methos rolled onto his back and floated. MacLeod did the same. They bobbed like the buoy, gently tossed from nascent wave to nascent wave. MacLeod listened to the music of the ocean.

Eventually, they swam back toward the coast to collapse on the sand, breathing heavily. Methos rose onto his elbows and surveyed the beach and the garden and the house. MacLeod rose to his feet and hauled Methos up to standing. They were sandy and salty, but Methos looked relaxed and the controlled energy he had maintained since New York was smoothed out. He walked loose-limbed.

MacLeod started picking up their clothing.

Methos followed, but chose not to help. "When I left you in Paris, it was to protect you. But you still put yourself in danger."

"What are you saying?" MacLeod straightened, noticing Methos's defensive stance.

"Don't think I don't know you let yourself be visible just enough to draw challengers away from me. That wasn't the plan. The whole point was to avoid that," said Methos.

"Plan? There was a plan?" MacLeod started laughing so hard he kept dropping pieces of clothing.

Methos glowered. "I'm serious. Even as isolated and underground as I went, completely off the grid, avoiding all contact with Immortals and mortals, in constant hiding, not even carrying a bloody cell phone, I _still_ heard enough about your exploits to turn my blood to ice. What the hell were you think--"

"Methos," interrupted MacLeod, still laughing and having a hard time getting air. He waved his hand, as if that gesture could do the explaining for him. "I can't help what people say. Not half of it is true."

"You deny you made yourself available for hunters to find you? Did you think you could kill them all for me?"

MacLeod sobered. "I didn't seek them out, if that's what you're asking." Methos's jaw tightened. They glared at each other. MacLeod sighed. The pit of his stomach twisted. He didn't want to have this conversation now. It was too soon. "They found me, Methos, everywhere I went. They found me. I admit it, I could have hidden better. I could have done what Connor did. I could have holed up in some monastery somewhere. Gone to Malaysia again. But I didn't do any of those things. And they found me. They always found me. If they found me, they might find you, no matter if everyone knew that was no longer the case. The stories are exaggerated. Most of the challengers never went through with it."

They were silent. There was no way to know the future. This plan of theirs, this last best chance to fix the damage done by Camilla and Kronos, could work. They would film Methos fighting Keyumars, with Keyumars's hair cut to look like Methos, and Keyumars wearing Methos's clothing. It would be convincing enough. The real Methos would stay anonymous. They would upload the video with the title, "Unknown Immortal takes Methos's head," and disseminate it far and wide. It could work. Or it could make no difference at all.

MacLeod couldn't read Methos's expression, eyes hard and glittering, face almost carved in stone. He faced the garden, the pool and the expanse of yard. "We should stage the fight there," he said, pointing to an area that was fenced off from the rest of the house, buttressed on one side by a rocky outcropping, and on the other by what MacLeod assumed was a boat house. "Joe would have a good vantage point from over there," he pointed to a line of bushes. "It's a good amount of space, but contained. What do you think?"

MacLeod breathed in shakily. He nodded. "Good idea. Let's tell the others. I want to get this over with."

They walked back toward the house, side by side, still naked. MacLeod tried not to think about tomorrow, or the next day, or the many days after that when he and Methos would part because it was the smart thing to do. Perhaps the only thing. He might still be used as a means to find Methos. He couldn't bear that. And he knew well enough what it was like to have a loved one used as leverage: it was impossible. They would have to part. The video would help, maybe, maybe not. It would take centuries for Methos to become a legend again. Maybe the years would pass quickly. Maybe they could still meet every couple of decades or so.

As they meandered through the garden to the house, MacLeod's steps grew heavier. His feet were like lead; his head weighed a ton. He wasn't sure he could do this. He wasn't sure he had the strength.

"I can't do this."

Deep in his own black thoughts, MacLeod thought he had spoken. But he turned and saw Methos a couple of steps behind him and realized it was Methos's voice, rough with emotion.

"I don't think I can do this." He looked scared, a little desperate. "Mac."

MacLeod took his hand. Naked in the moonlight in a tropical garden, it was like a scene out of a West Village musical review, only with tears and heartbreak and fewer dance numbers. Methos sat down on a low brick wall and bent his head against MacLeod's chest and stomach, hands on MacLeod's hips, warm against MacLeod's cool skin. He put his hands through Methos's hair, still expecting short and dark but finding long and pale, stiff from swimming in the ocean. "I miss your hair," he said.

Methos's grip on his hips tightened slightly. He huffed a laugh, giving off a puff of warm moist breath that tickled MacLeod's navel. MacLeod felt a twinge of desire and would have wanted nothing more than to make love under the moonlight. Instead he went on his knees and cupped Methos's face Methos's hands slid up to MacLeod's shoulders. "We could stay here," he said. "Robert and Gina already offered. Not forever, but a year or two, until we see what the weather is like," he smiled faintly.

As hideouts go, they could do worse. There was some risk, but minimal. It wasn't entirely cut off from the rest of the world, which could leave an avenue open for hunters to find them, but that was preferable to complete isolation. They had the resort town and stores and people, but were still removed from all of that and could spend their days on the eastern coast never speaking to another soul if that was what they wished. They might kill each other after two years, but MacLeod was willing to find out, if Methos was.

"Is this what you want?" asked Methos, with wonder, searching MacLeod's face.

MacLeod thought about it. His throat closed, his eyes stung. He nodded. "Yes."

~~~

The night grayed toward dawn. Although no one had slept, Methos didn't wish to wait any longer.

Gina cut Keyumars's hair to look like Methos. MacLeod had asked Joe to bring the same clothing Methos had worn in the video and he and Gina struggled to dress the corpse in Methos's jeans, cable knit sweater (with a hole for the still embedded knife), and long dark coat.

Robert, displaying a hidden talent for scenery design, made the area Methos had chosen for the fight look like a generic back alley of any town in any country. From somewhere on the island, he had ferreted out trash bins and corrugated tin, wire fencing and an old generic truck, no license plate. Through the two dimensions of a camera, it was convincing enough, especially filmed in low enough light to make it look grainy.

With everything ready, Robert, Gina, and MacLeod retreated far enough away for their presence not to be felt. Before leaving, MacLeod touched Methos's arm. He was afraid to look him in the face for fear of betraying himself. He knew Methos needed to do this, and that he could do it, but still, MacLeod was afraid. Methos's strong fingers gripped and squeezed and then let go.

MacLeod followed Gina and Robert along a trail that wound up from behind the house up the mountain to a quiet little grotto built around a cool mountain spring. It was holy ground, MacLeod realized, recognizing the religious symbols carved into wooden figurines, and the stubby candles and fresh cut flowers laid across a small altar.

From there they could watch the fight while still being near enough to be in firing range with a sniper rifle. Through the telescopic sight, MacLeod watched Keyumars gasp back to life, looking with shock at his chest, at the strange clothes he wore. He watched Methos toss Keyumars's sword at his feet and hold his hand up, as if to say "Take your time." They were speaking but were too far to be heard. Keyumars stood up, swishing his sword back and forth. He was laughing, smiling with that overreaching bravado MacLeod remembered from their encounter. Methos's expression was amused, almost curious, and even hundreds of feet away and viewing through a telescopic sight, MacLeod thought he saw Methos's eyes glint as he summed his opponent up.

Keyumars made the first attack, but even as he did so MacLeod realized it was because Methos had manipulated him into doing so. He watched, fascinated by Methos's body language and fighting style, so different than it usually was. He was playing the part, maneuvering Keyumars to the best advantage of Joe's hidden video camera. He was a master. He fought with just enough of a sense of helplessness to give the impression that Keyumars had the upper hand. Then, swiftly, the energy shifted. Keyumars came down to his knees, disarmed. He raised his head as if to receive a blessing. Methos swung.

When it came down to the moment, MacLeod closed his eyes. Despite knowing full well that it was just a disguise, Keyumars looked like Methos and MacLeod couldn't watch him lose his head.

He heard, and felt, the quickening rise and strike and then dissipate. MacLeod opened his eyes and saw Methos, his Methos, trying to rise from the aftermath of the quickening. In a flash, MacLeod was down the mountain and at his side.

It was over.

~~~

A warm, fragrant breeze blew in from the open window, ruffling the curtains and the white linen drapery over the canopy bed. With one eye, MacLeod took note of the time. It was just before eight in the morning and already it was humid and hot as hell.

As he woke fully, he heard the tap-tapping of fingers on a computer keyboard. Turning over, he saw Methos sitting next to him in bed, skin bronzed, naked but covered with a white sheet over his lap, which was probably there more as a meager protection from the hot underside of the laptop perched across his legs than for decency's sake.

Before leaving, Gina had got her hands on Methos, forcing him into a chair. She cut and dyed his hair back to a more normal style and color, since he no longer needed the disguise. MacLeod was grateful.

He watched Methos for a moment, absorbed in whatever it was he was doing. It had only been a few weeks since Robert and Gina had left. Amanda was coming for a visit the following week. She had insisted, after yelling at them both over the phone, together and separately, for an agonizing period of time, and neither MacLeod nor Methos were strong or clever enough to say no to her.

But for the time being, they were alone. MacLeod reached out and grazed his fingers down Methos's exposed side, down to his flat stomach and hipbone. Methos flinched away, ticklish. MacLeod pushed at the laptop in annoyance. It wobbled on Methos's lap. "Stop that," said Methos, batting at MacLeod's hand.

MacLeod did it again, expertly avoiding Methos's attempts at trapping his hand. "You're going to cook your private parts, you know that."

Methos smiled, lopsided. "Just a few minutes more."

"A few minutes more and you're going to have charred dangly bits." MacLeod kept trying to push the laptop away, but settled on tickling Methos instead. Methos defensively protected his stomach, laughing.

"Okay, okay, see, I'm closing it." He closed the laptop with a snip, setting it carefully on his bedside table.

Grunting happily with success, MacLeod pounced. He kissed Methos into submission. Methos spread his legs and MacLeod sat back, hands raking over Methos's skin from shoulders to chest, down to sensitive stomach that made Methos inhale sharply. "This calls for a close inspection," he said, taking great interest in making sure Methos hadn't actually damaged his cock and balls.

MacLeod took Methos's growing erection between his hands and licked it like a lollipop. Methos made a noise deep in his throat, arched his back, and thrust into MacLeod's mouth. He thrust again, reaching to grab hold of MacLeod's hair. He tugged and MacLeod opened his throat. Another thrust and Methos came with a grunt. MacLeod swallowed, climbing up over Methos body, kissed him with his semen still on his lips. "How many views is it up to?" he asked, reaching toward the bedside table.

Methos was still breathing hard. He reached up and touched MacLeod's face, brushing hair away. "Over half a million," said Methos. "Not bad."

MacLeod slid off Methos's body. He slicked his fingers and reached between Methos's legs, watching as he pushed in. He loved this part, before he was distracted with his own pleasure, when he could watch Methos and take note of his expressions, his concentration as he looked at MacLeod with lazy desire. MacLeod stretched his fingers. Methos breathed in, widened his legs.

Carefully withdrawing, MacLeod returned to his earlier position, hooking Methos's legs over his. He pushed in slowly. Methos arched, and bore down. MacLeod saw stars and remembered to breathe. He lowered his head and captured Methos's lips with his. Their fingers laced together. He pushed in all the way.

The breeze continued to blow over their heated, damp skin. MacLeod thrust quickly, and hard, fingers indenting flesh. Methos shuddered and came a second time, almost violently. MacLeod held on, pounding until he followed with a moan and a sudden collapse of all muscles.

They lay still as their hearts slowed back down to normal. Methos's arm came around MacLeod, even though it was really too warm for lingering contact. MacLeod badly needed to take a shower, but instead, he snuggled up next to Methos's heated body and dozed. After a moment, he heard the soft snip of the laptop opening followed by the tap-tapping of fingers typing.

"For your information," said Methos, a bit primly. "I'm ordering you a pair of Testoni shoes. I've asked Amanda to bring them."

MacLeod started laughing, and it was a long while before he could stop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Writing:**  
> Sometimes I think a story is actually a list of answers to a bunch of interrelated questions. I've always been intrigued by the Missed Connections section of the _Village Voice_, and suddenly started imagining what sort of messages Duncan and Methos would write. What moments in the series were missed connections, and how would they be expressed? The more I thought about it, the more I fell in love with the idea. But this fancy idea was problematic. *g* If Duncan and Methos were leaving messages for each other via the 'Missed Connections' section of a newspaper, that would necessarily require them to be parted. Well, why are they parted? Because of a challenge. Okay, what sort of challenge? Why? From whom? etc etc. And the story just sort of spiraled outward in a very messy sort of way. I've written stories on a mad dash with a plotty twists before, but never one that kept wanting to jump tracks constantly like this one. It was interesting, and a learning experience.
> 
> At one point, somewhere mid Part 4 I think, I had to stop and gut the story, move parts around, and sew it back up again. Story surgery!
> 
> I complained a lot to who was very patient with me as I sent her messy clumps of story. *g*
> 
>  
> 
> **Characters:**
> 
> I didn't know Camilla was Camilla until the time came to write Joe telling Duncan who she was. I needed a name, and wanted her to be tied to something real or a legend. I forget now how I came upon Camilla of the Volsci; probably by complete random divine intervention.
> 
> Diego de Almagro is also a [real conquistador](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Diego_de_Almagro). But, I only borrowed his name and his birthdate, and made everything else up. He's considered an important historical personage in South America and you'll see his name everywhere.
> 
> I used the name Anastasia to allude to [the famous Anastasia from Russian royal family.](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Grand_Duchess_Anastasia_Nikolaevna_of_Russia) I leave it up to the reader to decide whether Anastasia the Immortal could be the missing family member.
> 
> Keyumars changed names several times -- I was unhappy with my earlier choices because I wanted him to match the others who all alluded to real people and/or legends. I kept poking the internet, and history, and poking my brain, finally discovering [Keyumars](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Keyumars).
> 
> These four had to be like the Horsemen, or at least they *wanted* to be like the Horsemen, so whether or not they were indeed legends or only faking it is a question I left unanswered.
> 
> **The Village Voice:**
> 
> _The Village Voice_ no longer as the "Missed Connections" section in its printed paper. It's a shame because it used to be quite entertaining. As was said in the story, there is a [Missed Connections](http://www.missedconnections.com/) website now, and also, all Craig's Lists have a 'missed connection' section, but they seem to have been reduced to mere personal ads now (and more questionable activity goes on via Craig's List than is generally known).
> 
> **Shoot The Freak:**
> 
> [Shoot the Freak](http://www.bridgeandtunnelclub.com/bigmap/brooklyn/coneyisland/shootthefreak/index.htm), a longtime Coney Island tradition (of nebulous morality), was shut down sometime in 2008, so it's no longer there. You can see what it looked like in these pictures. [The Freak's Domain](http://kensinger.blogspot.com/2008/11/freaks-domain.html)
> 
> The same photographer also has some other interesting photographs of the Coney Island boardwalk. [Under the Boardwalk](http://kensinger.blogspot.com/2009/03/coney-island-under-boardwalk.html).
> 
> **The things people can do with computers these days:**
> 
> You know, if one tenth of what Alec Hardison can do on _Leverage_ is true, we are all living on thin ice. *g*
> 
> As I was writing this story, which although I don't say expressly is supposed to be set contemporaneously with the present, it became really apparent that it sucks to be an Immortal in the modern age. I mean, granted not all Immortals are going to be as tech savvy as Camilla and Co. but just the advent of youtube would make life hell for Immortals. I'm just saying.
> 
> **The Testoni shoes:**
> 
> I almost forgot to mention the shoes. I settled on Testoni because I like the name *g*. They're a steal at [$849](http://couture.zappos.com/n/p/dp/38870551/c/5291.html), reduced from $1799. I actually had a different pair in mind, but when you have as a beta, you really have to choose your expensive mens shoes carefully. *g* Anyway, I fibbed a little on the price in the story because I liked the rhythm of "fifteen hundred dollar shoes" better.


End file.
